The Beat And Bad Company
by allofmyheart
Summary: Alex and Gene are drawn together, but clash while investigating a rape case. Drama, angst and romance. Rated M for adult content and the disturbing nature of the crimes.
1. Appetite

**Disclaimer: Kudos, Monastic and the BBC own Ashes To Ashes, not me.**

**Thanks are due to huge numbers of people who have helped me get this story off the ground. Lucida Bright, grainweevil, Siggy and liverdoc have all provided much specific help as well as encouragement; many more of you on the TRA have helped with my research. Thanks so much to you all; I hope you'll think it was worth it!**

**Big thanks also to my dedicated beta RedSkyAtNight76, who not only picks up my puctuation but also provides masses of ideas and insight.**

**I love reviews, particularly encouraging ones - if you're going to criticise please be gentle and/or constructive. And just to make things quite clear, this is a Galex story - if you don't like, don't read.**

**As this story is a sequel to my first short story 'Appetite', I have repeated that story as the first chapter. Apologies to those of you who have read it before.**

The bright red Audi sped up the outside lane of the motorway on a dark, wet November evening.

Alex Drake sat in the passenger seat, feeling drained. In the weeks since the car bomb, the days had dragged past, empty and futile. She hadn't been sleeping well, and had had little appetite, not only for food but for work, for alcohol, even for arguing with Gene Hunt. It was just an effort to get through every day and make it to the next. _I'm grieving, _she told herself, _grieving for my parents all over again, _but knowing what caused her mood did not make it easier to bear. She no longer knew what she was doing here, stuck in this strange world of her own making, and the prospect of getting home to Molly seemed further away than ever. Sighing slightly, she gazed out into the glare of red and white lights reflecting on the wet road.

Gene's motorway driving was even faster than his driving elsewhere, but at least here it was in a straight line, and in these less congested days of 1981 there wasn't too much other traffic about. In any case, she realised, she'd actually come to trust his driving over the last few months; it might seem reckless, but he knew what he was doing. She glanced at him now, black leather driving gloves gripping the wheel, staring ahead, chin jutting as usual, his profile betraying nothing.

The Quattro's heater was effective, and in the warmth she began to feel drowsy. Tucking her legs up beneath her, she turned to one side, leaned her head against the seat back, and closed her eyes. The hum of the road and monotonous sound of the windscreen wipers lulled her, and soon she was asleep.

Gene's mind roamed over the following day's work as he drove. A particularly nasty rape on their patch had shown some similarities with a string of others committed in Nottingham six months earlier. They'd had copies of the files sent down to London, of course, but there was no substitute for face-to-face communication, and he wanted a proper chat with the Nottingham CID officers who were investigating the crimes. Also, two of the Nottingham victims had agreed to be re-interviewed about the assaults, with a view to revealing more information and perhaps building up a psychological profile of the attacker. That sounded like a job for Bolly and her psycho-whatsits. In any case, she'd not seemed herself lately, and he was hoping this case might re-kindle her interest in work, and in life in general. The Nottingham officers had wanted to start first thing in the morning, so that meant this drive up the motorway on a wet Thursday night, and staying in a hotel so as to be there on time.

He stole a glance at her as she slept, face turned towards him, illuminated in flashes as they passed each motorway light. He was glad she was having a kip, she needed it; she'd been looking wrecked lately. Asleep, her face looked younger, free of tension, but still a bit pinched. _She's been losing weight too, _he realised. _Not that she had it to lose in the first place. I've seen more meat on a butcher's pencil. _He sighed. His confused feelings about the woman hadn't clarified much over the past few weeks, but they were still there, and it pained him to see her every day looking thin, pale and withdrawn. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had a proper argument, and for some reason he missed that, too: missed the spark in her eyes as she challenged him, her fire, her certainty that she was right.

Eventually they passed the sign for Nottingham; he turned the car off the motorway and headed down the sliproad. The hotel, modern, anonymous and boxy, was not far from the junction. As he pulled into the car park, the slowing down and the change in engine noise began to rouse Alex. She stirred in her seat, and, cat-like, stretched out her legs, then opened those huge hazel eyes and, for reasons best known to herself, gave him a sleepy smile. Caught off guard, he felt a sudden pang, as much to do with tenderness as with desire. _Jesus, what wouldn't I give to wake up to that every morning?_

_Fat chance, Hunt, _he told himself sternly. She'd gently but firmly rebuffed all his advances of a few weeks ago, letting him know that he wasn't her type, and since then she hadn't really seemed interested in anything, let alone him. _Drop it, you twat._

"Decided to rejoin the land of the livin', 'ave ya?" he grunted at her as she yawned and sat up. Not waiting for a reply, he got out of the car, lifted the suitcases from the boot, and they went to check in.

* * *

She was just unpacking a few things in her room when there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find Gene, looking the same as ever: suit, dark shirt with open collar, loose tie, tousled hair.

"Restaurant's still open, if you want somethin'," he offered.

"I'm not really hungry." No surprise there.

"Just the bar it is, then. C'mon," he replied, holding the door open for her. She shrugged and followed him down the corridor. After sleeping in the car she wouldn't drop off for ages tonight; she might as well have a drink as anything else.

The bar was like the rest of the hotel: large, bland, impersonal. There was hardly anyone there. She sat at a table by the wall as Gene headed towards her with the drinks. Sitting next to her, he settled a pint in front of himself and a large glass of red wine in front of her. He began to talk about tomorrow, who they would meet, what they needed to do, but her answers were automatic. The glass of wine soon emptied though, and he fetched her another one. _Why not?_ she thought, sipping it. It was certainly a lot nicer than the stuff she drank at Luigi's, anyway.

Gene sat in silence, watching her. They'd finished discussing tomorrow and the conversation had dwindled: he wasn't much good at small talk, he thought ruefully. His blue eyes ranged over her, searchingly, seeking some clue to why she was like this, some way to make a connection. _Why am I bothering?_ he thought to himself_. Bloody moody cow, what do I care?_ But he did care, and he didn't know what to do about it. _Women. Wasn't kidding when I said I was completely baffled by them._

Alex sat, staring at the table, barely aware of her surroundings, but then a sound intruded on her consciousness: the piped hotel muzak changed from one record to another, and she gasped, eyes widening with horror. The familiar electro-pop intro, the haunting Bowie lyrics: _'Do you remember a guy that's been / In such an early song?' _She shuddered and felt a wave of nausea. _No, no, not that, Please, not that. _But the images were crowding into her mind once more, unbidden but unstoppable: the car, the red balloon, the blinding explosion… Twice over, the sense of powerlessness, watching, unable to do anything… the screaming… _Noooo…_

"You OK, Bols? What's the matter?" Instinctively, he had reached out to take her hand. The touch brought her abruptly back to reality - w_ell, this reality, anyway – _heart thudding, she stared at his hand on hers, the large, square palm, the fingers entwining hers, the oddly bending-back thumbs… He had done this before, she remembered. He had held her hand before; she had thought it was Evan, but it was Gene, Gene who had come and held her hand and picked her up and made her feel safe. Or was it? She didn't know what was real any more, but she clung to his hand anyway, something to keep her, to anchor her in this room, away from the horrible flash of light, the fireball.

"Bols? What is it? Look at me!" He gazed into her face and she vaguely registered his expression of intense concern, the same look as when he had rescued her from that freezer. She took a deep breath in and forced herself to exhale it slowly, to slow her racing heart, to concentrate on here and now.

"It's… nothing. A flashback. That's all. Nothing. It doesn't matter." She ran a hand over her eyes, her other one still clinging tightly to Gene's. His face told her he was not at all convinced by her words. "You're not right, Bolly. Not right at all, you 'aven't been for weeks. You should see a doctor. Or 'ave a holiday."

"I'm fine." Hand still shaking, she reached out for her wine glass. She forced herself to sip it, slowly, until her heart and breathing has completely returned to normal. When it was empty, the feeling of panic had gone, but she felt drained, completely limp, like a rag doll.

"I think I'll go to bed," she muttered, but when she made to stand up, her legs felt weak and she swayed, grabbing the table to steady herself. Instantly Gene was next to her, arm around her shoulders, supporting her. "C'mon," he said, and she gratefully leant against him as he steered her back to her room.

When she unlocked the door he did not let go but led her over to the bed and sat down next to her, clearly still worried that she was unwell. She leaned against him, feeling his solid warmth, breathing his familiar scent of cigarettes and aftershave. That was better. Now his arms were around her and she snuggled against his chest as she had done in the vault, feeling comforted as she had done then. That was _much _better. Actually, it was better than she had felt for weeks… it was odd, barely believable, but she could feel her mood physically lightening, she felt lifted, buoyed up inside, as though gaining physical and emotional strength from the man who was holding her. She knew for certain that she didn't want to let go, she needed him to stay, she wanted him… what? With slight wonderment, she realised that she wanted more of him, of his physical self, wanted to kiss him, to feel his body against hers… He was life, a physical force that made her feel connected to this reality in a way she hadn't felt for weeks, and he was what she needed right now.

She lifted her head and ran her fingers up the side of his face. "Gene," she whispered, "stay with me."

Gene didn't know why he had put his arms around her; it had just seemed the right thing to do. He held her close and buried his nose in her hair. No, that was a bad idea, it made him want her and that was the last thing she needed right now, she was ill… God, but it felt good to hold her. When she lifted her head and whispered to him his eyes searched her face – did she mean what he thought she meant? Her eyes were brighter than usual and there really did seem to be an invitation there… _No. I mustn't. I can't take advantage of her when she's feeling ill or upset or whatever. She'll only regret it later and then we'll be messed up big-time…_

She saw the uncertainty in his eyes and pressed closer to him: _Please, please, don't leave me now. _"Please," she said aloud. "I need you." His physical desire was really awakening now; her face was so close to his, her breath, her lips… Even so he could have gritted his teeth and walked away from that, if that was all there was between them, but looking in her face once more he saw more, saw her emotional need for him too. He didn't understand why in hell he cared about her, but he did, and this was his chance to show it. It might be his only chance. His glance moved to her mouth, and then he pressed his lips against her soft, yielding ones.

The first kiss was gentle, full of tenderness, as each sought to convey reassurance to the other. Slowly their lips moved against each other, caressing, tasting, savouring the moment. Then Alex slipped her tongue between his lips and teased with the tip of it, and suddenly his stomach was molten with desire for her, and he pressed her backwards onto the bed, and the next kiss was not gentle at all.

* * *

Alex woke up early the next morning and lay on her back in the darkness for a while, listening to the rain outside.

_OK. So, I've had sex with an imaginary construct. _An imaginary construct who, at that precise moment, was lying with his back to her, snoring gently, and appearing extremely solid and real. And, she admitted as images from last night arose in her mind, considerably more attractive than she'd ever realised before. Why, she wondered, had she never taken much notice of those broad shoulders, that dark golden mane… and the eyes, that blue gaze could bore into her like a heat-seeking missile, but occasionally held tenderness, kindness, even perhaps a hint of vulnerability. And the way he had been with her – his hands gentle, but his mouth and body urgent with desire – well, that had exceeded anything she could have dreamed or hoped for.

_Why did I do it? _It wasn't like her to stop thinking and go with her feelings, but last night, something had compelled her… all she had wanted was to give herself to him, and take all of him in return, because he was her lifeline, her anchor, the one person in this strange existence that might be able to make things right. And it had worked… the strange lightness that she had felt last night had not left her. Instead of the dragging emptiness, she felt calm, positive, even energised, ready to take on the world again. _Who'd have thought it?... but I'm not complaining. No regrets._

Needing the loo, she got up and padded naked into the bathroom. Then, washing her hands, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and felt a rush of embarrassment as she saw that her neck and shoulders carried a liberal number of small, reddish-black bruises: bite-marks. There were even a couple on her breasts. _Good grief, I'm too old to be waking up covered in lovebites! Anyone would think I was a teenager… _Embarrassment was replaced by panic as she tried to remember what she had brought with her to wear today. Oh, thank God, it was a high-necked blouse. The irony of turning up to interview rape victims while looking like one herself was not lost on her.

_It was nice though, _she admitted to herself, turning her head to examine the marks more closely. Some of them were really quite dark. They didn't call him the Manc Lion for nothing.

_Some construct._ Last night she had wanted everything Gene had to give, and the feel of his teeth on her flesh, signalling his desire, had been exquisite, heightening her own pleasure…Now, however, it was time for her to take charge. And perhaps for a bit of fun, too. Smiling slightly, she turned off the bathroom light and returned to the warmth of the bed.

Her movement had wakened Gene and he rolled over to face her and opened one eye. Not altogether sure of his reception, he stretched out a hopeful arm towards her, but she held his wrist. "Look what you've done to me!" she said, quietly but accusingly.

"You what?" It was too dark to see anything and he reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, then peered blearily at her as she proffered her neck for inspection.

"Oh." _Shit, perhaps I was a bit of an animal. _She had seemed to like it though, he thought, her body writhing underneath his as she mewled like a kitten… Just the memory of it was enough to turn him on all over again, but she was looking accusingly at him now.

"Uh, sorry 'bout that, Bols," he muttered, but then she smiled, a teasing smile. "It's alright," she said softly, then moving towards him, snuggled into him and whispered into the base of his neck, "I liked it." His arousal cranked up another notch at the feeling of her breath against his skin. He leaned over and nipped her very gently on the earlobe, then growled into her ear, "Did ya, Bols?"

"Mmmmmm." She lifted her head and kissed him softly on the lips. Then she sat up, a half-smile on her face, wearing that superior expression that he hadn't seen for some weeks. "But not as much-" she placed her hand on his chest and pushed him gently onto his back "-as you're going to like this." And with that she pushed back the covers and settled herself comfortably into a position where she could pay attention to his lower body.

Last night had been a bit of a blur, but now she took the opportunity of having a good look. "Bigger in every department." he had said, and, well, he certainly wasn't a disappointment. She ran her fingers gently around his inner thighs, eliciting groans of pleasure, and then moved onto his balls and the sensitive area behind them. Dropping her head, she buried her face in him, inhaling his musky maleness before planting a soft kiss on his balls; then, turning her attention to his erect cock, she busied herself in earnest with her mouth and hands.

_Jesus Christ, she's good at this_, Gene thought unsteadily through the mass of sensations. _Where did she learn to do it like that? Surely they don't teach them that at those posh girls' schools? _Her hands worked him skilfully while her tongue traced intricate patterns over the head of his cock. _Bloody hell, I've had whores who weren't as good as this…_ A sound between a groan and a growl escaped him. She raised her head for a moment and teasingly raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Good?" she asked.

"Bols…" he began weakly, but then she was off again, stroking and teasing, circling his cock with her tongue and then taking the whole head into her mouth. As her tongue began to work the sweet spot just below the head, he knew he wouldn't last much longer… he willed himself to hold on as long as possible, riding the moment… _so good… _and then the explosive, blissful release as he ejaculated into her mouth, once, twice, and on until he was spent. And then just lying there as though floating, nothing else in the world making the slightest intrusion on his mind or body at the moment…

Alex swallowed quickly and hid a small grimace. Not her favourite part of the proceedings, she had to admit, but she thought he'd appreciate the total package. She'd been right, too, she decided, leaning back to survey him. In fact, she appeared to have temporarily deprived her DCI of the power of speech, which was quite an achievement, she felt. She couldn't help smiling. Eventually he looked at her and murmured a few choice blasphemies, which she took to signify that he was impressed.

She kissed him on the lips and then lay next to him, propped up on one elbow. "So," she enquired softly, "are you going to return the favour?"

Gene felt a slight twinge of uncertainty. What she wanted was something his ex-wife hadn't let him practise very often, and with the whores and the one-night stands he hadn't bothered; after all, they'd been there for his pleasure, not their own. He covered his misgivings with a grumpy comment: "Bloody 'ell, Bolly, do I 'ave to do _all _the work round 'ere?"

Indignation rose in her immediately. "_All the…?" _but then she saw him grinning and gave him a gentle slap on the forearm for winding her up. His grin broadened: it was good to see the spark in her eyes again. He moved slowly down her body, kissing and caressing, awakening each nerve with his teasing mouth until her whole body was crying out for more. Eventually he lay between her feet, covering the insides of her thighs with insistent kisses; she moaned softly as she felt his hot breath and the slight scratch of stubble on her skin. He nuzzled at her bush and then gently parted her with his fingers before starting to explore with his tongue, finding her wet, ready for him.

"Mmmm, that's good…" she whispered as he savoured her. "Aahh… a bit higher… no, higher…. Mmmm, there…"

"I don't need….mmpf…. bloody directions!" he growled, somewhat indistinctly. She had to laugh at that, but her laughter quickly turned to moaning and whimpering as he found the place and began to caress it with his tongue. Long slow licks were followed by quicker flicking and tickling, driving her closer and closer, and when she arched her back and cried out as her orgasm came, he didn't stop, but kept on, stimulating her again so that wave after wave of sensation swept over her, until she finally cried "Enough," and collapsed, breathless, wide-eyed, amazed and giggling slightly at the extent of her own capacity for pleasure.

By the time she could speak again, he was lying next to her, his expression gentle, watching her. "Well, Bolly?"

"Not bad, Mr Hunt, not bad," she conceded, smiling playfully. "In fact, with a bit more practice…"

"More practice? I'll give you 'more bloody practice', DI Drake!" He tried to sound angry, but couldn't help grinning. God, it was nice to be fencing with her again.

"Well, is that a promise? I might just hold you to that…" And with that she stretched languorously and curled up against his chest once again.

Gene lay with her in his arms, experiencing a feeling of slight disbelief. Of all the things he'd thought about whilst driving up to Nottingham, ending up in bed with his DI had seemed the least likely of them. He'd wanted her, of course, almost from the first moment he set eyes on her… fantasised about shagging her in numerous situations… but gradually, disconcertingly, had come the realisation that he wanted more from her than that. He wanted her to _like _him, and that, a lot of the time, had seemed near impossible, what with all her ranting and arguing... And then there had been the times when she had seemed lost, alone, vulnerable, and he'd had this absurd urge to protect her, scoop her up and take her away from all the pain… _Bloody hell, I'm turning into a right soft Jessie. _But lying here now, with her in his arms, it didn't seem so stupid after all. He had no idea what would happen from here onwards – _the woman is a complete fruitcake, after all_ – indeed, he was willing to bet that she'd be arguing with him again before the day was out. But sod all that – right now, with her warm soft body curled against him and her hair tickling his nose – right now, it felt bloody fantastic, and he was going to stay like that as long as she let him.

Lying comfortably against the warmth of Gene's thickset body, Alex's mind turned to the day ahead. For the first time in ages, she felt excited about the day's work: a chance to use her abilities, interview these women properly, apply her mind to the investigation, and with any luck, as Hunt would put it, _nail the bastard _responsible. Yes, it would be good to get to work. Mind you, there were a couple of things he'd said yesterday about their plan of action that she didn't agree with… she'd have to have a word with him about that… As her mind turned over the day, she started to be aware of yet another appetite that she had neglected lately. Lifting her head to smile at him, she asked, "I wonder if this place does a decent cooked breakfast?"

* * *


	2. After The Fairytale

Alex swallowed her last mouthful of egg, bacon and fried bread, and put her knife and fork down on the empty plate which had recently contained her full English breakfast. "Mmmm, that was delicious," she commented, wiping her mouth with her napkin. Gene looked on in approval as she took a sip of tea and then reached for the toast and marmalade.

"I can't remember the last time I enjoyed food so much," Alex continued, buttering her piece of toast. "Honestly, I don't believe it, I feel so much better after…last night…" She paused, glancing at him a little shyly.

He smirked cheerfully at her. "Stands to reason, Bolly. The Gene Genie refreshes the parts other DCIs cannot reach."

She giggled a little, but then frowned. "Listen Gene, I've been thinking - "

"God 'elp me," he remarked, still smiling.

"Gene, be serious for a minute. You know these two women we're going to see today?"

"Yes?"

"I think it would be better if I spoke to them on my own, you know, just one-to-one."

"Wot?" He frowned. "Why? We've both come up here to see them."

"Yes, I know that… I just think that they'd feel more comfortable with another woman. It's not as if it's a formal interview, they've already done all that. This is just to try and glean some more information, and I think they'd open up much more in an all-female situation."

"Fine – you have your girly chat with 'em, if you like, but I've got questions of my own. Don't forget who's leading this investigation." He was feeling slightly annoyed now: why was she springing this nonsense on him at this stage?

She sighed and began to explain to him. "Yes, you are leading this investigation, but that doesn't mean you have to do everything yourself. This is my field of expertise, Gene, and I really don't think questioning by a man would be appropriate right now. Trust me. These women have been through a horrifying ordeal, you know that."

"Of course I know that!" He found her tone of weary patience distinctly irksome. He'd read the files just as well as she had, hadn't he? He knew the disturbing factor that linked these crimes - after raping the women, their attacker had viciously slashed their genital area with a sharp weapon. That was what had alerted them to the fact that the attack on their patch might be connected with those in Nottingham. He'd been over every detail, several times over. Now she was talking to him as though he was simple. "I know what level of sick scum we're dealing with here!" His voice grew louder.

"There's no need to shout at me!" Alex rejoined, half angry, half hurt. Why was he behaving like this? Less than an hour ago he'd been so tender… giving… now he was back to the angry Neanderthal she'd encountered months ago. Why wouldn't he listen? "I do know what I'm talking about!"

To think that he'd _missed _arguing with her. God, he'd forgotten just how infuriating she could be. He switched on the sarcasm. "Oh, _do_ you? Well, bloody excuse me, but I am the senior officer here, and I'll do it how I sodding well like!" He rose to his feet, swiping his jacket off the back of the chair. "Go and pack your stuff, I'll see you by the car." He strode off out of the restaurant without a backward glance.

They sat in the car in stiff silence, heading towards the police station in Nottingham city centre. The heavy morning traffic did nothing to improve Gene's mood. Alex glanced at his stubborn profile and bit her lip. She was still hurt from his dismissal of her suggestion, but perhaps confrontation was not the best way to bring him round. She tried to speak reasonably. "Gene, will you think about what I said? You know I've been right before…"

He did know it, and that was what annoyed him – that, coupled with the patronising tone she persisted in using. He felt half inclined to assent to her proposal but pride prevented him. "Say what you want, Bollykecks, but it's not how I do things. You'll see when we get there," he replied, and set his face into such a fearsome scowl that she did not dare make any further argument.

They parked at the police station and were met by the front desk by their equivalents in the Nottingham force. Gene looked them over, appraising. DCI Jim Bordon was a smallish man in his fifties, moustached and grey. A bit world-weary, Gene thought. Next to him stood a taller man, about Alex's age, thin and bespectacled. Gene took in his smart suit and tightly-buttoned collar with the beginnings of dislike: this one seemed a bit too proper and clean-cut for his liking. Jim introduced him as his DI, Andrew Lambert, and they shook hands.

Gene was taking no prisoners. "My esteemed DI here," he indicated Alex, "has dreamed up the idea that she should talk to these women on her own. A nice little girly chat over a coffee - "

If Lambert picked up Gene's sarcastic tone he gave no sign of it. "What an excellent idea," he replied, addressing himself to Alex. "I'm sure that would be much more comfortable for them than a formal interview." Gene's dislike of the man increased exponentially.

Alex beamed back at Lambert, ignoring Gene. "Do you have anywhere suitable that we could use?" she asked. "Rather than an interview room?"

Lambert grimaced. "Well, nowhere ideal, I'm afraid, but you're welcome to use my office. It's quite private; would you like to come and have a look?"

"Oh, that would be great…"

Gene looked even more furious at having the rug pulled from under his feet in this way and opened his mouth to object, but Bordon stepped in first. "Well, Andrew seems to have that in hand, now, if I can just fill you in on some new developments in the case…" Gene was fuming, but Alex and Lambert were already heading off, and he didn't want to miss what Bordon had to say about fresh developments. Unwillingly he followed the smaller man in the opposite direction.

Lambert's office was large and light, a few floors up the building. As well as the usual desk and filing cabinets there were, as he had said, two easy chairs and a small table in one corner. "It's great, thank you so much," Alex smiled.

"You're welcome." Lambert returned her smile. "Let me go and see if your first interviewee is here, and then I'll get coffee for you both." Really, Alex thought as she settled into one of the chairs, this could hardly be better for the purpose.

Lambert soon returned with two coffees, at the same time ushering in a young woman with curly blonde hair. "This is Liz Peterson," he introduced her to Alex. "We think she was the rapist's first victim." He smiled encouragingly at both of them and withdrew from the room, saying 'I'll leave you to it."

Elizabeth Peterson was twenty-one, a shop assistant who lived with her parents in Beeston. Back in February she'd been walking home along Chilwell High Road after a night in the pub with friends, when she was grabbed, dragged around the back of the bus station, and raped. Her account of what happened bore all the hallmarks of a fairly unplanned attack: the perpetrator had had no means of disguising himself and had used Liz's own scarf to blindfold her. She had caught a glimpse of him but her description was vague: tall, white, short dark hair, wearing jeans and some kind of dark top. He had been strong and quickly overpowered her, holding her hands behind her back as he forced her to the dark corner where he had forced her to the ground and raped her. She admitted to Alex that she had not fought back, nor, after an initial scream, cried out, believing that if she offered less resistance he would quickly finish and leave her alone. This belief had been sadly shattered when after the rape he had slashed her vaginal area with a broken bottle – an improvised weapon. Only then did he leave her, shocked and bleeding, and disappear into the night.

In spite of the horrific nature of this ordeal and the fact that she had needed an examination under anaesthetic and three units of blood, Liz Peterson appeared quite calm as she told her story to Alex. She seemed to be a strong character who had tried to come to terms with what had happened to her and move on. Alex felt admiration for her and told her so as she gently led her through the details of the attack, asking questions, hoping to trigger any memory of a detail which she had not recounted at the time. "Can you remember hearing his voice at any time?"

"Well," Liz sipped her coffee and tried to remember. "When he first grabbed me he said something like 'Don't struggle or it'll be the worse for you'…"

"Mmm hmm…" Alex discreetly made a note. "What did he sound like? Any sign of an accent?"

"Well, I dunno, not a strong accent. Don't think he was a southerner… but it was hard to tell, really…Oh, I've just remembered!" She looked surprised at her own sudden recollection. "When he'd finished, after he'd – you know – cut me…" In spite of her self-possession the young woman winced and Alex nodded in sympathy. "Well, after that, he kind of muttered something. 'Never again.' And then he said it again, 'Never again.' It was really quiet, you know, like he was talking to himself."

"OK, that's great. Well done for remembering that," encouraged Alex, nodding again. "Did he say anything else at all?"

"No, I don't think so. Not that I can remember, no."

After a few more questions Alex drew the conversation to a close and showed Liz out to a discreetly hovering DI Lambert. She had a ten-minute break and then Lambert returned with the second victim, a twenty-year old university student named Nadine Taylor. Nadine was small and curvy, with brown eyes and smooth brown hair drawn into a pony-tail. She was quieter than Liz and seemed more traumatized by her attack, which, like Liz's, had taken place in the late evening. Nadine had been visiting some friends who lived off the campus and had been walking back along the main Derby Road when she was seized and dragged into undergrowth in Wollaton Park. This time the rapist seemed to have come prepared: he was wearing a balaclava, and had carried gaffer tape with which to cover her mouth and bind her hands behind her back. After raping her, he had inflicted vaginal wounds with a penknife. Although the blade was small, it had been very sharp: the Queens Medical Centre staff who had later dealt with Nadine had thought it must have been specially sharpened for the purpose. Again Alex guided her gently through the attack, offering prompts to remember even the smallest details. The rapist had issued the same kind of warning about not struggling to her as he had to Liz, but did not appear to have said anything after that. Alex questioned her gently, carefully, trying to ascertain as much as she could about the attacker and his demeanour. He'd seemed quite calm and in control; more so than during the first assault, when he'd been angry. Already Alex's mind was starting to put things into place, but there was still a long way to go.

Nadine was still quite upset at the end of the interview, and Alex was concerned about her. "Will you be all right? Are you going back to the university now?"

Nadine nodded, gulping, trying to pull herself together. "Yes, a couple of friends are coming to meet me… I think they'll be there now, if I go downstairs…"

Alex opened the door but DI Lambert was nowhere to be seen. "I'll come down with you," she said to the young woman. Together they walked down the few flights of concrete stairs, Nadine still dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. In reception a couple of people of student age were hanging about, looking out-of-place and slightly anxious; Nadine headed over to them with a relieved smile on her face. One of them, a rather beautiful blonde girl taller than Nadine, enfolded her in a hug and asked "Are you OK?"

Nadine nodded, turning around to make introductions. "Yeah, I'm all right – look, this is Alex – I mean, Inspector Drake, she's been ever so nice to me…" The blonde girl smiled at Alex, obviously pleased that her friend had been well looked-after. Nadine continued, "This is Sarah, she's my best friend, she's really looked after me since it happened… and this is Simon, he's been ever so kind too."

Simon and Sarah appeared to be a couple. Alex smiled and said "Hi" to them, thinking wryly to herself that they looked like children. Hell, how old was she getting? She turned back to Nadine. "Well, I'll leave you with your friends - they obviously take good care of you."

"Yeah." Nadine gave her a shaky smile before gratefully accepting a cigarette from Sarah. Simon lit it for her. Alex watched as the three of them headed outside; it had stopped raining and the sun was weakly trying to come out from behind the clouds.

"Ah, there you are." It was Andrew Lambert. "Sorry to abandon you. Had to go off and deal with something… are you ready for a spot of lunch now?"

Alex was still quite full from her breakfast, but it seemed the polite thing to do. "Well, maybe a little," she replied, and followed him towards the canteen.

Gene, meanwhile, had had a rather less satisfactory morning. His impression of Jim Bordon was not a good one: the man seemed to have largely given up on life, and lacked any of Gene's dynamism and motivation. He seemed happy to let Andrew Lambert make a lot of his decisions for him. In spite of what Bordon had said earlier, Gene didn't learn anything that he hadn't already got from the files. What was more, he got the distinct impression that the investigation might have been on the lax side; Jim Bordon was not a man to follow up his team too closely. At the end of the morning they too went to the canteen, where they met up with Alex and Lambert.

Gene and Alex managed to be civil enough over lunch that Bordon didn't notice that there was still an atmosphere between the two Met detectives, though Alex thought that Lambert probably had his suspicions. As the conversation turned once more to the case, none of Gene's misgivings about Bordon were dispelled. Unwillingly, he found that he was pinning more of his hopes on that smarmy git Lambert. At least, he reflected sourly, the speccy swot didn't seem like the type to cut corners. After lunch they said their goodbyes, promising to liaise if any fresh information came up from either investigation, then Alex and Gene headed outside to the Quattro.

Pulling on his driving gloves, Gene looked reflectively at Alex. He really didn't know what to make of their current situation. Last night had been fantastic; this morning, extremely annoying. Half of him wanted to make things right between them, but his pride was wounded by the way she had, as he saw it, undercut his authority, publicly ignoring his wishes in front of two other officers. He settled for a rather grumpy enquiry. "So, find anything out, Bollinger Knickers?"

Stung by his tone, she adopted a dignified manner. "Maybe," she replied noncommittally.

God, she was irritating. Who did she think she was, sticking her nose in the air like that? "Care to share it then?" he asked sarcastically.

"I'd rather think it through, first," she replied icily. Why was he in such a bad mood today?

"Oh fine." He was sneering now and there was real venom in his voice. Bloody stuck-up bitch, talking down to him like that. "You just think about all your psycho-bollocks crap then, and I'll get on with working stuff out and actually catching this sicko!"

Alex felt his scorn like a slap in the face. How dare he, how _dare _he belittle her skills, talk about her work as though it was nothing? "Fine!" she spat back at him, eyes blazing. "If you think what I do is crap, I can't even think why you brought me up here in the first place!" With an abrupt movement she turned away and stared fixedly out of the window, hiding the angry tears which were now springing to her eyes. Seething, Gene set his jaw and guided the car through the streets of Nottingham and out onto the motorway.

The three hours back to London were the longest and most uncomfortable that Alex had ever known. She would rather have been anywhere than next to this glowering man who sat in silence, chain-smoking and refusing to acknowledge her presence. As her anger subsided it was replaced by hurt, rejection, bewilderment. How could this _possibly _be the man she'd made love with last night? The man who had held her so tenderly, making her feel so cherished, so wanted, so complete, as he had driven away her demons and her lurking nightmares. Whose touch, whose kiss had been desire tempered by gentleness… _his mouth, whispering down the skin of her neck, down to her breasts… _her nipples tightened at the memory. Then, as he'd discovered what she liked, grown bolder, more insistent… _his teeth, his body, driving her to heights of pleasure… the passion in his eyes as their bodies had moved together… _everything he had done had made her feel valued, utterly precious. Today he seemed to set her at nought. She swallowed the tears that threatened to return as she thought about it.

Glancing across at her as she stared resolutely away from him, Gene could see one of the dark bite-marks on her neck, just visible above the collar of her blouse. Immediately the night before flashed into his mind, sending his senses reeling… _the taste of her skin, the feel of her flesh under his mouth as he kissed and nipped at her…_ He'd tried to be gentle at first, although Christ knew how difficult it was, but when she had responded to his teeth with cries of "Yes!" he had gladly followed the desires of his own body and tasted her more fiercely… _biting and sucking at her neck, her chest, her breasts_… It was when he had entered her, though, that he'd really had to fight for control of himself. He'd always suspected that she might be loud in bed, but nothing had prepared him for her high-pitched squeals of pleasure when he started to thrust into her… _Oh God_… _he'd wanted to come so much_… There had been nothing for it but to sink his teeth as hard as he could into the flesh of her breasts: it was either that or come far too soon... that was what must have left the one or two really livid bruises she had discovered this morning…

His hard cock throbbed insistently as his mind replayed the images and sensations, but however much he might want her again, that wasn't what really bothered him. No, it had been earlier than that – right at the beginning, when she had clung onto him, begging him to stay. He thought of the way she had whispered "Please…please…" as he had undressed her, caressed her, gently kissing and stroking… His overwhelming memory was her need for him, evident in her eyes, her voice, every movement of her body. That was why he had stayed: he wanted to show that he was there for her, that he cared, would do everything he could to make her whole again. _I was needed and I was there_... And at the end, when he could hold on no longer and had spilled into her, shouting and gasping, his only thought had been not of himself, but of her: it somehow felt as though he was giving himself to her, giving what she needed. And now, today, she was acting like she didn't need him at all. Just stuck her nose in the air and did things her own sweet way, completely ignoring anything he might have to say. That was what really hurt. Well, bollocks to her. She wasn't going to get the chance to hurt him like that again. He would make sure of that.


	3. Briefing

**Massive thanks for the encouraging reviews so far - please keep them coming!**

They exchanged only the briefest of words as Gene dropped Alex off outside her flat. He took her bag out of the boot for her, but did not offer to carry it upstairs. Lighting another cigarette, he leant against the car and watched her disappear through the door leading up to her flat. He looked at his watch, considering. Five o'clock, Friday evening. The CID crowd would be heading over to Luigi's any time now. Should he join them? He felt morose, didn't particularly want company. He thought about the alternative: going back to his impersonal, unwelcoming flat. No. He'd need a drink before that. He locked the car and headed down the stairs.

Alex let herself into her flat, put the kettle on, turned the heating up. She unpacked her overnight bag and then sat on the sofa, sipping a mug of tea. She could hear the noise from the crowd downstairs, already becoming raucous. She guessed that Gene was with them. No. She absolutely _would not _think about last night. Hugging herself, trying to get warm, she turned on the TV and tried to blot out Gene and the team from both her hearing and her thoughts. As the flat began to warm up she realised how tired she was, and it was not late when she put on her warmest pyjamas and got into bed.

She was just dropping off, in the half-state between waking and sleep, when it occurred to her. She sat bolt upright, eyes snapping open – _oh my God we didn't use any contraception. I could be pregnant. What the hell am I going to do if I'm pregnant?_

Heart racing, palms sweating, her thoughts were frantic as she sought for reason. _This is all in my head, right, isn't it? Isn't it? So I can control what happens… _But she couldn't, could she? All her experiences here so far had shown her that she had very little control, couldn't stop bad things happening, couldn't stop people dying… So there was no guarantee that she could control a thing like a pregnancy. _Oh God oh God…_

_Stop. Calm down. Think about it. Where am I in my cycle at the moment?_... She racked her brains, remembering_…In the middle. Exactly the right time to conceive. Shit shit shit…_

She forced herself to lie back down, trying to feel calm. There was nothing she could do about it at this stage. She'd just have to wait till she knew, one way or the other. _Then what? Oh God, don't think about that yet.. .there's probably nothing to worry about… really… _But it was hard to convince herself, and even harder to drop off to sleep with fears and possibilities still raging in her head.

She woke still tired, and spent the weekend looking over her notes from Friday's interviews, together with the files and notes relating to the other victims. She tried not to think about the events of Thursday and Friday, but the memories – blissful acceptance, followed by hurt and confusion - kept surfacing, only to be followed by rising panic at the possibility of being pregnant. On Monday morning she made a resolute effort to swallow down all her anxieties, and walked across the road to work radiating a confidence that she did not really feel.

She was relieved to find that Gene was already in his office, door closed. At 10am he emerged and called the team together for a briefing session. There was a whiteboard crowded with notes and photographs relating to the rape cases, but he ignored it and perched on the edge of a desk, legs stretched in front of him. Although most of the team had been involved with the assault on their patch, so far only Gene, Alex and a couple of DCs had looked at the files relating to the Nottingham attacks. Now he wanted to bring the whole team up to speed. He began by summarising the details on each case.

"Number one. Elizabeth Peterson, aged twenty-one. Shop assistant. Attacked on the evening of Saturday 28th February, whilst walking home from a night in the local pub with friends. Apparently a fairly spur-of-the-moment attack…" He gave the details that Alex already knew from talking to Liz Peterson. The team listened, arrayed around the room, sitting or leaning on the various pieces of office furniture; Chris attentive; Ray chewing gum, impassive.

Gene continued. "Number two. Nadine Taylor, aged twenty. Studying Physics at Nottingham University."

"Physics!" Ray snorted. "What do birds want to study Physics for?" There were a couple of sniggers from the rest of the team and a glare from Alex. Ignoring them, Gene continued:

"Attacked on the evening of Thursday 16th March, while walking back from a friend's house. A more planned and controlled attack…" Again, he went through the details. Alex sat, a slight frown of concentration on her brow as she reviewed the cases in her own mind.

"Number three. Lesley MacNeil, aged twenty-three. A prostitute." A chorus of guffaws greeted this information, and Chris crowed, "Another prozzie rape accusation!" However, Shaz shot him a filthy look and even Ray looked sombre; Alex knew he was thinking about Nina Akaboa. Gene gave Chris a withering look. "Yes, Christopher, but whatever the circumstances under which she shagged him, I think there's little doubt that this bloke used some kind of force, seeing as 'ow 'e slashed 'er up afterwards," he commented acidly. Chris looked crestfallen. "Yes, Guv. Sorry, Guv."

"_As I was saying,_" Gene resumed, looking pointedly at Chris, "Lesley MacNeil. Attacked in the early evening of Easter Monday, 20th of April. Walking along the Mansfield Road when she was forced into a large local cemetery known as the Rock Cemetery, and assaulted. MO very similar to the previous attack: grabbed, dragged into bushes, gagged and hands bound with gaffer tape. Raped, then slashed up with the same or similar small sharp blade. Unfortunately Ms MacNeil saw fit to have a bath before reporting the crime, making her the only victim from whom we do not have a semen sample. Samples from all the other victims show that the rapist was blood group O, which as you'll all know, is next to sodding useless anyway."

A murmur of agreement; it was the most common blood group. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Alex wished that DNA profiling was available in 1981. It lurked, only a few years in the future, but tantalisingly out of reach. She dragged her thoughts back to the present: Gene was still talking.

"Number four. Hazel Armstrong, aged nineteen. Another student at Nottingham University, History student this time. Attacked on the campus on the night of Thursday 14th May, between 9.30 and 10.00pm, while walking back from the library to her hall of residence. Very similar to the previous two attacks: This time, 'owever, the rapist dropped something, providing us with our only piece of physical evidence so far." He indicated a photograph stuck to the board. "A matchbook produced for Slater and Co, an engineering firm with works in Chilwell. Nottingham police have conducted detailed investigations at the firm, including interviewing all employees, but they've found no strong leads. They extended the enquiry to all clients of Slaters and they've been working through those employees - as you can imagine, a slow process with no great success as yet. All not helped by the fact that the rapist seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, until -"

"'e turns up on our patch," interjected Ray.

"Exactly," replied Gene. "Number five. Karen Blake, aged twenty-two. A nurse at the London Hospital. Walking home from a late shift at around 1am on Wednesday 28th October. Heading south from the London to her home in Shadwell, when she was forced into a yard by some garages and assaulted in a manner very similar to the Nottingham attacks. Leaving us all to wonder why, after a gap of six months, the sick bastard has decided to show up down 'ere. And more importantly, what we're goin' to do about it. Before I get onto that, however, Inspector Cleverclogs Drake will give us her insights into the psycho-bollocks of this piece of scum."

_Oh, great. Thanks a lot, Gene, Thanks for just assuming that I'll have spent all weekend working on this stuff so as to be ready to present it today, and not actually checking with me first. Good bloody job I have, isn't it?_ Alex got to her feet and headed over to the whiteboard, where Gene moved to one side in a studied manner and lounged against a wall, watching her.

"Well," she began, mustering her confidence, "as DCI Hunt has told us, there are differences between the first assault, which appears to have been unplanned, and the others. However, we can see that once the perpetrator had decided to carry out more attacks, he was pretty organised about it. He dressed so as to conceal his identity, and prepared the things he would need in advance: sharpened his knife, bought the tape, and so on. He may well have checked out the locations of the crimes beforehand. He may also have been observing the victims for some time, although as far as we know, none of them seem to remember seeing anyone strange around, following them or anything like that. But the pattern of the attacks rapidly becomes quite regular and structured, and during the attacks he exhibits a need to have control, so that's an important feature in his personality.

"In terms of background, he could well have experienced parental conflict or break-up during childhood or adolescence. The style of parenting which he received may have been neglectful, manipulative, inconsistent, or violent, and he himself may have a previous history of non-sexual violence. He may have sudden outbursts of anger, but equally, he appears to have learnt to control and channel that anger, at least some of the time. He may also have rather a strict, stereotypical view of the roles of men and women."

She paused, uncomfortably aware that everything in her last four sentences could also apply to Gene. Some days she marvelled that the man hadn't turned out a psychopath. She wondered whether the parallels had also occurred to him, but his face was unreadable. She took a deep breath and carried on:

"He's very likely to have a low sense of self-esteem, or one which is unstable and fluctuating, and to have difficulty in forming appropriate relationships with women. He may feel insecure about approaching women in the conventional way, and any previous relationships may well have been with very young, impressionable or otherwise vulnerable women. He would have wanted to have power and control in the relationship. It's possible that he had a wife or girlfriend at the time the attacks took place, but I doubt it. It's likely that he doesn't have any close male friends either, but is something of a loner."

"Lastly, there is evidence to suggest that he does have a moral framework or conscience, and that he has compromised it. After the first attack, the victim heard him say "Never again", as though he was unhappy with his actions and did not wish to repeat them. Unfortunately, as we know, he has done so, several times.'

Ceasing to listen, Gene watched her as she addressed the team: poised, confident, articulate. Beautiful. Looking as though she needed nothing and no-one. _You seemed to need me on Thursday night… Maybe not now, though. Bitch. __Well then, I don't need you either. On or off duty. _

Alex was still talking. 'This suggests that he's succeeded in rationalising his actions to himself, perhaps by telling himself that the victims deserved it, or that his crime was not so bad really, or that he is unable to help himself because of his upbringing or other external factors. Possibly he thinks that -"

Gene levered himself off the wall and moved in front of her, interrupting. "Well, that's all very interesting, Bolly-Kecks, but it could apply to half the low-life scum in the soddin' world. No use to us until we get some names to apply it to. So, this is what we're goin' to do…."

Alex stood open-mouthed at being so summarily dismissed, and moved back to her desk in a daze. She felt as though she had been slapped. Not only had he once again implied that her contribution was worthless, he'd done it in front of the whole team. Her head was spinning; she felt so hurt and angry that at first she didn't hear him addressing her. Gradually the sarcastic tone got through: "Earth to Bollinger-Knickers, is anyone there?"

"What? Sorry?" she replied, aware of the chorus of sniggering around her.

"I was just _requesting,_" - he was laying it on thick now - "_if _you would be so kind, I want you to keep looking through the victim notes until you've got something worth tellin' us about. Ray, Chris," – the pair looked up at him – "get onto this Slater and Co connection. Try to find out if they 'ave any clients in this area, anyone who has dealings with them, any employees who might have moved down here or been visiting. It's our best lead, let's follow it up. The rest of you…" He carried on, apportioning tasks to the remaining members of the team, as Alex sat with cheeks blazing, not knowing whether to shout or cry. He'd never put her down like that in front of the others before, never. Even when they'd been at complete loggerheads, he'd always told them to respect her, being quite firm with Ray and the rest if they said anything untoward about her. She could hardly believe he was behaving like this. Maybe, after all this, he was just the misogynistic caveman she'd seen at first: one shag (well, OK then, two...) and he lost all respect for her, cast her off, already looking for the next woman. Maybe the friendship they seemed to have struck up in the preceding few months had all been a pretence, a strategy to get into her knickers. Deep down, her instinct was telling her that it wasn't so: there was more to him than that, and what had happened had been far from just a shag, for him as well as her. But wounded pride made her ignore her inner voice, swallow it down, and allow the resentment to grow. At random she reached for a file and pulled it angrily towards her. _I'll bloody show you, Hunt. There is more to this case than you think, and I'm damn well going to find it._

* * *

Having given his orders, Gene retreated to his office and closed the door. He ran his hands over his face, through his hair, feeling somewhat guilty. He knew he was being a bastard, and the expression on Alex's face when he'd put her down had caused him to wince inwardly. _Shit. _He didn't want it to be like this. All those months he'd spent wondering if he might have a chance with her… When it seemed like the chance had finally come, he'd seized it – it had felt so much the right thing to do – but now it was all wrong. Somehow, between them, they'd messed it up – or maybe he'd never really had a chance in the first place. Maybe she'd just had a moment of weakness, never to be repeated. The disappointment was like a void inside him, aching and empty, and he hadn't been able to stop himself from taking it out on her. He found a cigarette and lit it, sat with his boots up on the desk, staring at nothing. Was it too early for a drink?

* * *

It wasn't long before the team noticed the change in atmosphere between their DI and DCI. Shaz had been almost as surprised as Alex at Gene's behaviour during the briefing, and soon the coldness between them was felt by everyone. They spoke to one another only when absolutely necessary, communicating via the others if at all possible. Mostly they ignored or avoided one another. Gene was more irritable than usual, barking at everyone, and apart from Ray, the team tended to keep out of his way. If he needed to go out to a case he took Ray with him, pointedly sweeping past Alex's desk in the process.

Everyone assumed that they had had a row during their trip to Nottingham, but both Alex and Gene felt relief that no-one had reason to guess that the cause was anything other than disagreements about the case. Ray took his lead from Gene and also ignored Alex as much as possible; Chris and the others spoke to her, but glanced nervously in the direction of Gene's office every time they did so. Only Shaz was unswervingly loyal, bring Alex regular cups of tea and always accompanying them with a concerned "Everything all right, ma'am?" And although everything was far from all right, although her heart ached with rejection and her stomach knotted with the fear of being pregnant, Alex always answered her with a smile and a "Fine, thanks, Shaz," wishing that she could do more to let the younger woman know how much she was appreciated.

By Thursday, after three more days of reading through files and notes, Alex's suspicions about the case were becoming ever stronger. Rubbing her fingers over her aching forehead, she sighed, then looked up at Gene's office. The door was closed, as it had been more often than not this week. Should she speak to him? She thought back to last Friday and all the difficulties he'd made about the interviews. Reaching a decision, she picked up the phone and dialled DI Lambert in Nottingham.

"Andrew? It's Alex Drake."

"Alex!" He sounded pleased. "How's it going? Turned anything up yet?"

"Not exactly, but I've got a theory… Listen, do you think you can arrange for me to talk to your other two victims? The third and fourth ones?"

There was a moment's silence, then a sigh from the other end of the line. "Well, I can try, but it's going to be tricky – you know Lesley MacNeil's a prostitute? She's not exactly keen on talking to the police, and she keeps moving flats, she's hard to track down… and Hazel Armstrong was really traumatised by her attack; it'll be difficult to persuade her to talk about it again."

"Can you try for me, Andrew? Please? I think this could be really significant."

His tone was more positive as he replied, "Yes, OK then, I'll do my best. Give me a couple of days to see what I can sort out. Will you be coming up here to talk to them again? What about DCI Hunt?"

Alex glanced again at the office door. " Not DCI Hunt. Just me. I can come up any day; just let me know when, if you manage to arrange it."

"Fine. I'll be in touch."


	4. Misery

**Many thanks to everyone who has given me encouraging reviews so far. Hope you enjoy this chapter - I'm afraid it's a bit miserable! A return to plot next time, I promise.**

Friday evening, five o'clock. Alex looked up from the paperwork on her desk to see Shaz, looking slightly anxious. "Are you comin' down for a drink, ma'am?"

Luigi's. Gene would be there and she didn't really want to see him, but then she didn't want to sit all evening in her flat brooding about being pregnant either. A drink and a chat with Shaz and maybe some of the others sounded very tempting, and might take her mind off her troubles for a while. She smiled, a little too brightly. "Yes, Shaz, that would be lovely."

In Luigi's, she sat at a table with Shaz while Chris went to the bar; he returned with a pint for himself and a bottle of white for Shaz and Alex to share. Gene, Ray and some of the others were in a group at the other side of the room. Shaz smiled up at Chris as he poured the wine and then turned to Alex. "So, ma'am, whatcha doin' for Christmas?"

_Christmas! Oh God, am I really going to be still here for Christmas? _The thought horrified Alex, making her realise just how many months she'd spent in this strange, unreal world – and for what? She'd learned some truths, most of them unpleasant, but she had not been able to redeem her past or, seemingly, make any progress towards returning to her present. She wondered whether Christmas was approaching in 2008, whether Molly was facing a Christmas without her… she was brought back to her surroundings by the worried look on Shaz's face. "Ma'am, are you sure you're OK?"

Alex rubbed her hand across her eyes, made an effort to smile. "I'm fine, Shaz, just a bit tired… I'm not sure yet, about Christmas. What about you?" She was glad to move the focus away from herself.

"Oh, I'll be goin' home to mum and dad's, o' course," replied Shaz. "Couldn't miss seeing my little brothers an' sisters openin' their presents." Her face lit up just at the thought of it and Alex couldn't help smiling too, somewhat wistfully. Shaz shared a flat in London with a couple of other young women, but Alex knew that she was still deeply attached to her large, warm-hearted Catholic family, and went home often to her parents' house in Essex. "And," Shaz exchanged a glance with Chris and her smile grew broader, "Chris is comin' too!" A nod and a slightly embarrassed grin from Chris confirmed this news.

"Oh, how nice for you!" Alex made an effort to smile and sound enthusiastic; the young couple's pleasure and anticipation was so genuine and endearing, she didn't want to dampen it for them. "Won't your parents miss you, though, Chris?"

"Nah, they're goin' to see our Andrea." Happily, Chris was unaware of the relief his parents had felt when their grown-up son had finally announced that he would not be joining them for Christmas, leaving them free to visit their daughter in New Zealand. He squeezed Shaz's hand under the table. Alex reflected wryly that if she hadn't been so fond of them both, she would probably have wanted to vomit.

"Er, what about Ray?" she asked, partly just to have something to talk about. "Oh. 'e'll be going back to Manchester," replied Chris. "Always spends Christmas at 'is sister's."

"And, er, the Guv?" Alex tried to keep her voice casual. What the hell did she want to know for, anyway? It wasn't as if his plans could make any difference to her. At this rate she'd be lucky if he even spoke to her again. Chris frowned slightly. "Dunno, but I should think 'e'll be staying round here. Did last Christmas. His mam died a few years ago, so 'e's got no-one to go back to Manchester for now…" Chris looked momentarily solemn, but then there was an interruption from the other table and the moment passed. Alex's glass was empty and she accepted readily when Chris refilled it for her. Suddenly she only wanted to drink, chat mindlessly and blot out everything else for a few hours. She and Shaz quickly worked their way through the first bottle. When Chris and Shaz left to go to the pictures, Alex was joined by a couple of the secretaries whom she knew vaguely; they chatted animatedly about their family complexities for the rest of the evening, so that Alex only had to nod and smile and pass a comment now and then, and could work her way steadily through another couple of bottles. Eventually she staggered upstairs, just with it enough to be able to undress before going to bed and falling immediately asleep.

She'd spent the evening sitting with her back to the rest of the room, half-hidden behind a pillar. She didn't notice that Gene had detached himself from Ray and the others halfway through the evening and sat in a corner, alone, smoking and brooding, nursing a succession of whiskies. She didn't see that he mostly gazed at the table or at nothing, sightless, thoughts far away, but that every so often, when a fragment of her voice carried his way, he looked over in her direction with a surprising intensity, or that when she left, his eyes followed her all the way up the stairs and out of sight.

* * *

Alex woke the next morning with a pounding head and a nauseous stomach. Although she knew it was caused by the wine, she couldn't stop the irrational fear that it might be morning sickness. _Oh God, what am I going to do…? _After lying in bed for half an hour feeling sorry for herself, she managed to get up, dress and drink a cup of weak tea. Now that there was no work to occupy her thoughts, her predicament seemed worse than ever. Surely she could at least find out.

Pulling on her jacket, she donned a pair of dark glasses, for anonymity as well as to hide her bloodshot eyes, and stepped out into the bright, chilly day. She started heading to the chemist's around the corner, but then stopped; half the station would be regulars in there and someone was bound to recognise her. Instead, she walked for fifteen minutes to another high street area and found a chemist's there. She pushed open the door and was assailed by warmth and the timeless smell of cough sweets and antiseptic.

A few inquiries were enough to dash her hopes. There were one or two home pregnancy tests on the market, although they were expensive and complicated to use: the simpler, recommended course of action was to take a urine sample in to the chemist's and have it analysed there. The key thing she learnt, however, was that none of the tests would give an accurate result until her period was over a week late. _Over a week! _The anxiety would kill her before then. She huddled into her coat against the cold as she began the brisk walk home, repeating to herself _I'm not late yet… not late yet… no need to worry… just forget about it… _But forgetting about it was the one thing she could not do.

She never really knew how she got through the rest of the weekend, trying vainly to distract herself with books and TV, vaguely nauseous all the time and unsure whether it was pregnancy or nerves. By Sunday her stomach muscles were aching with the tension and she hardly knew what to do with herself, longing for Monday so that she could go back to work and have something to do, even if it meant enduring Gene's coldness again.

* * *

Sunday morning was again bright and chilly and Gene was to be found in the yard behind the flats where he lived, washing his car. It was his regular Sunday morning occupation, since he didn't trust any other bugger to be careful with the paintwork. He worked carefully, methodically, cleaning every inch with soapy water, rinsing, drying, buffing, polishing the windows with a chamois leather. At last it was finished and he stepped back to admire his handiwork, but the sight of the gleaming red car did not give him as much pleasure as it usually did. The mindless physical tasks had distracted him for an hour, but as soon as he stopped, there it was again: _Bolly. Bloody stupid irritating cow. Doesn't listen to me. Doesn't want me. She was beautiful and vulnerable and like nothing I've ever had before, but now she doesn't want me. _With difficulty he restrained himself from kicking the bucket of dirty water. Sighing heavily, he put the car back in the garage – one of the key things that had led him to choose this flat. As he locked it away he shivered: the low winter sun had not risen above the top of his building and the yard was in shadow. He'd spilled some water on his jeans and now a cold breeze was blowing, wispy grey clouds scudding across the sky, chilling him to the bone. Tipping away the end of the water, he put his cleaning stuff away and went inside, up to his flat on the third floor. A scalding hot shower made him feel better physically, if not mentally, and half an hour later he headed out on foot to his local pub for lunch.

Four pints and a steak and kidney pie later, he let himself back into the flat, turned on the TV and sat heavily down on the sofa. He kicked off his boots, stretched and tried to get comfortable, but the sofa was a cheap one that he'd bought quickly when he'd moved down here. Like everything else in the flat, like the flat itself: modern, convenient, soulless. He thought regretfully of his old armchair at home, back in Manchester. Battered, tatty, but supremely comfortable; he'd had it for years, it had moulded itself to his shape. His wife had got it in the settlement, of course, like she'd got the house and everything else. It wasn't as if she'd even wanted it, he thought rather bitterly: his old chair had been the first thing in the skip. Her way of revenge, probably. He supposed he'd deserved it.

Lighting a cigarette, he turned his attention to the TV. Thank God _Match of the Day _had moved to Sundays; that was another two or three hours with something to occupy his mind, so he didn't have to think about Alex. _Oh. Shit. Alex. _There it was again._ I thought she needed me…_ but it was laughable, really. How could she possibly need a – what was it Sam had said? _'An overweight, nicotine-stained…' _ He couldn't remember the words, but he remembered the gist of it well enough, and what it meant for him and Alex. He was everything she despised, and he'd just been kidding himself to think otherwise. And, bollocks, now he was thinking about Sam too, and that hurt – hurt like hell. He missed Sam more than he'd ever admit to anyone. But Sam had gone – like Stuart, like his wife, and now, it appeared, like Alex too. Everyone he ever cared for left him in the end. _Shit. Only one thing for it. Whisky. _He poured himself a large measure and waited for his evening to descend into oblivion.

* * *

On Monday morning Alex was surprised to get a phone call from DI Lambert. "Andrew! I didn't expect you to get back to me so soon."

She could hear him smiling as he replied. "Yes, it was all easier than I'd expected. I've managed to persuade Hazel and Lesley to come in this Thursday to talk to you – is that OK?"

"That's brilliant, thanks, Andrew." She glanced around, lowering her voice as she continued, "I'll be coming up on the train – can I walk to you from the railway station, or shall I get a cab?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, I'll come and pick you up. Just let me know what time your train gets in."

"Are you sure? I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"Quite sure, it's no trouble. Would you like to use my office again, like last time?"

"Oh, that's so kind of you. That would be perfect, if you don't mind."

"No, no, not at all, anything to help." Andrew Lambert really did seem to be bending over backwards to be helpful. How different from Gene, Alex reflected ruefully, as she promised to contact him again once she knew the times of the trains.

When the conversation was over, Alex looked again at Gene's office door, closed as it had been for most of the last week. She chewed her lip, thinking; she knew she ought to tell him that she was going to Nottingham. The police force was a hierarchical structure and she should definitely inform her boss about following up such an important line of enquiry. Even if that boss had not been such a controlling Bonapartist as Gene Hunt. But that was what irked her so much – the way he didn't seem to be able to trust her to operate on her own. That was when it had all gone wrong, when he'd made such an issue about her interviewing the women by herself, and since then he seemed to have lost no opportunity to belittle her professional skills. She seethed with hurt and resentment again as she thought about how he'd treated her last Monday, and the way he'd ignored her since. Well, two could play at that game. He was going to have to change his attitude a lot before she'd tell him what she was doing.

* * *

Monday evening saw Gene in Luigi's, leaning on the bar with a pint in his hand, alone. It was quiet and it didn't take long before Luigi wandered over to him, eyeing him thoughtfully, polishing a glass as always. He knew the big policeman well enough by now to recognise his mood, but he wanted to understand what had brought it on.

"Good evening, Mr Hunt."

"Luigi." A grunted response and a nod were his only reply.

"You are all on your own, tonight, Mr Hunt?"

"Very well spotted, Luigi. Top marks for observation."

Luigi heard the bitterness underneath the sarcasm, but he was not a man to be deterred. "Where is the lovely signorina?"

At the mention of Alex, Hunt's scowl deepened. "Off somewhere with her toffee-nosed friends, I shouldn't wonder. Finally realised that she's far too good for the likes of us."

Luigi leant on the bar, looking him in the face, unimpressed. "You 'ave quarrelled, you and Signorina Drake," he stated. "I 'ave seen you, in 'ere last week, not speaking to one another. I 'ave seen 'er, going in and out. She looks sad. Sometimes she 'as red eyes. Why do you make her unhappy?"

"Me?" Gene's voice was harsh. "Nothin' to do with me, Luigi. She's the one that wants to go off on her own, do her own thing. Doesn't give a shit what I think. And likewise, I don't give a toss about her."

Luigi gave him his most old-fashioned look. "You behave like two children," he replied calmly. "You sulk and play games when what you need to do is talk. Talk to 'er, Mr Hunt. She is sad without you. Make 'er happy again."

Gene opened his mouth to give an angry rejoinder but Luigi had already wandered off to serve another customer, shrugging, still polishing. Gene took another swig of beer and then gazed into the depths of his glass, lost in thought. One of the reasons he really liked Luigi, he reflected grumpily, was that the little Italian was never afraid to speak his mind to him. _Nosy interfering wop…_but he didn't really mean it. As he finished his first pint, Gene wondered whether Luigi was onto something.

* * *

On Tuesday morning Alex was shocked when Gene wandered over to her desk and stood in front of it, adopting a legs-apart, masculine stance to cover his embarrassment. "So, uh, making any progress?" he asked gruffly.

It was the first time he had voluntarily spoken to her in over a week, and he didn't sound exactly angry. Was he thawing? "Erm, maybe," she replied, unsure what tone to adopt. "Yes, er, working on a few theories, yes."

"Good," he grunted, not looking her in the eyes. "Well, er, keep at it, and let me know if you come up with anythin', OK?"

"Er, yes, fine. Sure, I'll do that." She did her best to look calm and efficient. He gave another grunt and wandered away.

Alex didn't know what to make of his change in attitude, but there was certainly less of an atmosphere that day. Gene didn't talk to her individually any more, but he seemed to make more of an effort to include her when he was addressing the team; and even, at one point, instructed Chris to make her a cup of tea. By mid-afternoon she was reconsidering her decision not to tell him about the interviews. Perhaps he had decided to be reasonable after all, in which case it would avoid a lot of problems if she told him her plans. She was still undecided when he and Ray left to deal with a robbery, and they were not back by the time she left that evening. As she straightened the files on her desk and packed up her bag, she decided that she probably would tell him. Yes. Definitely. She'd tell him tomorrow.


	5. Interviews

_Many thanks to everyone who has left favourable comments and reviews - I really appreciate it. Also to grainweevil and my faithful beta RedSkyAtNight for their valuable comments on this chapter._

**Warning: this chapter contains descriptions of violent rapes, and therefore may be distressing.**

On Wednesday Alex awoke to scarlet evidence that she was not pregnant. Waves of relief washed over her as she let the fact sink in…_thank God, thank God. _Now at least she could put that nightmare possibility behind her and get on. Whatever else might have gone hideously wrong between her and Hunt, the spectre of an unwanted baby was gone. She could give her full attention to the case, and maybe, even, to rebuilding something of a relationship with him. He had seemed different yesterday: let down the frozen barriers of the last two weeks a bit. She'd even thought of telling him about Nottingham. Yes…

She washed, dressed, did her hair, and it was only as she was eating breakfast that she became aware of another feeling: a curious, unexpected regret – a _disappointment. _Unbelievably, a small part of her was mourning the fact that she was not pregnant. In this strange world where she was so, so alone, it would have been a comfort to have someone with her, another person, flesh of her flesh, someone who was completely, indisputably _hers. _Her child. But she already had a child. At once her memory was flooded with images of Molly, so real, so immediate, assailing her senses, sending her reeling: Molly's smile, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her arms around Alex's neck, the smell of her hair… _My daughter! My baby girl – I miss you so much… _And then following the images came the realisation, the horrible, empty chill that settled in the pit of her stomach: she hadn't seen Molly lately. _Not since… not since… aargh!_ Why couldn't she remember? She racked her brains, but the last image that came to mind was from the tenth of October – the day her parents died. She'd seen Molly then, that evening, as she sat on her own in Luigi's before the crowd came in. Molly sitting as she always did, calmly behind her birthday candles, that enigmatic half-smile on her face… But try as she might, she could not recollect seeing her daughter since that day. Guilt swept over her as she realised that she hadn't even noticed – she'd been so wrapped up in grief over her parent's death and her failure to prevent it, and then, in this last couple of weeks, worry over this stupid pregnancy fear. How could she not even have noticed Molly's absence? And worse, what did it mean for her, for her situation here? Molly was her one link with her real life in 2008 – was that link now severed? Was she finally dead in 2008, trapped here in 1981 for eternity? No, no, that couldn't be right – if she was dead, she was dead in both worlds, surely? But perhaps she was fading, there on that barge or in that hospital or wherever her 2008 body now lay… getting weaker and weaker, losing her awareness of the things around her – and she was powerless to do anything about it.

_Breathe deeply, Alex. _With an effort of will she put away the panic, it would not help her situation now. But Molly – she couldn't escape how much she missed Molly, nor, in her guilt at temporarily forgetting her, did she want to. Instead she wrapped herself in thoughts of her daughter, in the pain of her absence, as she went across the road to work.

Opening the door to CID she was greeted as usual by the warm, smoky fug of the squad room, and the sight of the team slowly coming to life, aided by tea, coffee and bacon butties. Deciding she could do with another cup of tea, she headed for the kitchen, where she found Gene and Ray brewing up, deep in conversation.

"You still seeing that woman that works in the betting shop?" Gene asked, taking a pull on his cigarette.

"Nah. 'Ad to give 'er the elbow," replied Ray calmly, stirring sugar into his mug. "She were all right to begin with, but after a bit she kept goin' on about lookin' for a house, and peerin' into every pram she passed. Was gettin' a bit serious."

_You lucky bastard, _thought Gene, and then was immediately horrified at himself. _Did I really think that? _Deep down he knew he meant it, God knew he hated living on his own_, _but he couldn't let that slip, least of all to Ray. "S'right," he agreed, sniffing, "you want to steer clear of that, Ray. That's the trouble with birds – all right when they're younger, but when that biological clock starts ticking like Big bloody Ben, it's time to get out of there." He looked up as Alex rounded the corner. "Oh, morning, Bolly."

It was too much. Any other day his comments might have gone unnoticed, but to Alex, raw from her rollercoaster of emotions about pregnancy and Molly, they felt like salt in an open wound. Without stopping to think she spat venomously at him, the first words that came into her head: "Look, could you just _stop_ being a _moronic bigoted twat_ for _five seconds_, Gene?"

Gene and Ray gazed at her open-mouthed, totally taken aback by her sudden outburst. After a moment Gene found words, drawing them from his supply of stock sarky answers without pausing to pass them through his brain first. "What's the matter with you? Got the decorators in again?"

Alex didn't want to argue; she just wanted him to go away. _Right, Hunt, you've deserved this_. She met his eyes. "Yes, actually," she replied calmly. _And I can't begin to tell you what a relief that is… _She watched in grim satisfaction as a look of disgust appeared on his face, he muttered something unintelligible and beat a hasty retreat, closely followed by an equally horrified Ray. _Huh_. _Typical man_.Gene Hunt must have seen more blood than most in the course of his career, not to mention mutilated corpses and all the rest of it, but the merest _hint_ of menstruation and he was off as if she had an infectious disease. _Hah. _She poked savagely at the teabag in her mug. _Stupid insensitive misogynist. Serves him right._

After that, there was no possibility of her telling Gene about her trip to Nottingham. Lonely and hurting as she thought about Molly, she focused her pain into rage, barely looking at him for the rest of the day. Gene sat in his office, watching her, feeling the fury radiating from her like an almost physical force, each wave of it another abrasive to his already raw heart. He didn't understand why she'd reacted so badly, but he cursed himself for having triggered it off by saying something he didn't even mean. _Bloody frigging Ray and his stupid bird…why was I even talking to him about it?... _He'd have done anything for the chance to rewind the conversation, do it differently, but the damage was done, and he was left sitting under a shower of what felt like nuclear fallout.

Anxious not to be overheard, Alex went to another office to phone Andrew Lambert and tell him her train times for tomorrow. As the afternoon wore on, she knew she'd have to find some way of letting Gene know where she was when she didn't show up for work the next day; she couldn't just fail to come in. She toyed with the idea of leaving a note on his desk, but he often worked late and she wanted to get off in good time, as she'd be up early for the train tomorrow. Moreover, she had no wish to be the last person left with him in an empty office, waiting for him to go home. No, a note wouldn't work, she'd have to leave a message with someone. But who? Ray was no good, he'd just tell Gene immediately. She knew that Shaz would loyally do as she asked, but she didn't want to expose the young WPC to Gene's wrath when she told him the news. She envisaged his likely reaction and knew that he'd be quite capable of blaming the messenger. Who, then? Ten minutes later she cornered Chris by the photocopier.

"Chris." Her tone was light and airy. "I'm going back to Nottingham tomorrow to do some more interviews. So, er, could you just let Gene know, if he asks where I am?" She gave him a winning smile.

Chris looked confused. "But, er, shouldn't you tell him today, ma'am? I think he'd want to know…"

"No, no." Alex shook her head, moved closer to Chris, laid her hand on his arm, dropping her voice. "There's no need to tell him till tomorrow."

"But -"

"Trust me, Chris," Alex whispered, looking into his eyes, smiling hypnotically. "It'll be fine."

Chris was not used to attractive older women treating him as though he was their most trusted confidant. He gulped nervously and glanced around the room as though looking for an escape route. "But -"

"That's great," Alex assured him, patting his arm reassuringly. "Thanks, Chris." And with an even wider smile she turned, and left him standing by the photocopier, still stammering "But ma'am -", opening and closing his mouth like a stranded guppy.

* * *

Alex was determined not to brood during her train journey the following morning. She'd read the rape victims' files so many times that there was no point going over them again, so she bought a paper and read it from cover to cover, to keep thoughts of Gene at bay. As promised, Andrew Lambert met her at the station, courteous and attentive as ever. On the short drive back to the police station he talked about the ongoing investigation in Nottingham, but really there was little to report. As before, he ushered her into his office and brought coffee for her and her interviewees. Settling into one of the easy chairs, Alex felt calm and focused, pleased to be able to put her skills to use.

Her first interview was with the prostitute, Lesley MacNeil, a young woman of medium height and build, with long, dark brown hair and a heavy jawline. She spoke quietly with a local accent and at first seemed defensive; Alex did her best to put her at ease by asking some general questions about her life and background. Her answers were sad but not unexpected: fleeing a violent father, Lesley had ended up on the streets at sixteen and had been a prostitute ever since. At first controlled by manipulative pimps, she was now pleased to have a measure of independence. She and two other girls shared a rented flat on the top floor of an old Victorian house, picking up clients on the street and bringing them back to their rooms for sex. After a few minutes' conversation in which Alex did her best to gain an idea of Lesley's world and to convey that she was not judgmental about it, she introduced the subject of the rape.

"So, were you working the night you were attacked?"

"No, it was too early. I was walking back from the garage on the main road, 'cos I'd gone out to buy some milk – we'd run out and none of the shops were open 'cos it were Bank Holiday Monday."

"OK. So, did the man approach you as though he was a client?"

"No – he came up behind me. Think 'e must have followed me from the petrol station, 'cos I didn't even see him - he just came up behind me and grabbed me, put his hand over my mouth… it was such a shock…" she tailed off.

"Then what happened?" Alex prompted gently.

"We were really near one of the gates to the cemetery – he dragged me in there…" Slowly, with encouragement and questions from Alex, Lesley went right through the details of her attack again. She had struggled with the man at first, but he had quickly gagged and bound her with tape, and when he produced the knife she had given up all resistance and waited for the rape to be over, not knowing that there was worse to come: although press reports of the two previous attacks had made the citizens of Nottingham aware that there was a rapist in their midst, the distressing details had not been made public. Afterwards she had been left shocked and bleeding in the deserted cemetery. As dusk drew in she had forced herself to her feet and managed to walk the few streets back to her flat, where her two flatmates had taken care of her. Initially they'd counselled her not to go to the police, suspecting that an attack on a prostitute would not be taken seriously. "So I didn't do anything, I just went and had a bath," Lesley continued in a low voice. "I felt so dirty – really used an' disgusting." She looked at Alex, a wary expression in her eyes. "I s'pose you think that's stupid, yeh? Considering what I do for a living?"

Alex shook her head. "Not at all," she replied softly but firmly. "Whatever you do, you do on your terms, with your consent. Being forced into something is a completely different experience. No-one has the right to do that to you. Of course you felt used. It was a violation."

Lesley nodded gratefully at Alex's understanding. "So I 'ad a bath – I didn't realise how badly cut I was till then -" she swallowed, but pressed on "- but I went to bed and tried to sleep… It was only the next morning, when I were still so sore, I thought I'd have to do something about it – so I went to casualty, and they stitched me up, and they said I should go to the police. And when I showed the girls, they said so too - they were scared, y'know, to think that there was a bloke out there who might do that to them."

Alex felt tempted to ask what kind of reception she'd got, but reminded herself that she was here to solve a crime, not to investigate the dubious attitudes of 1981. As with the previous victims, she went back over the rapist's behaviour with Lesley, picking up any scraps of information about his attitude and bearing, as well as his accent, clothing and physical appearance. Everything that Lesley said tallied with the previous accounts, particularly that of Nadine Taylor. Eventually when she felt there was no more to be gained, she thanked Lesley warmly for coming in to speak to her, knowing that a visit to the police station would not have been easy or enjoyable for her, and DI Lambert ushered her downstairs.

Five minutes later he was back, flashing Alex a charming smile. "Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," she admitted, returning his smile; it seemed a long time since she'd had breakfast before catching the train.

"Great, we've got time for an early lunch before Hazel Armstrong comes in."

* * *

Back at Fenchurch East, Gene sat glowering in his office, casting irritated glances through his open door at Alex's empty desk. Eventually at twenty past nine he surged to his feet, strode out into the squad room and demanded of the assembled staff, "Drake call in sick this morning?"

There was a general murmur expressing mild surprise and lack of any knowledge of Drake's whereabouts; then Gene's glance fell on Chris, who was sitting at his desk, staring like a frightened rabbit. Gene crossed the room, leant on Chris's desk and loomed menacingly over him, enquiring in a deceptively quiet tone, "Christopher?"

"Er, no, Guv…" Chris gulped and licked his lips nervously. "She's, um, gone to Nottingham."

"_Wot?_"

"To do some more interviews," Chris continued desperately. "She, er, said yesterday. To tell you today. She said it'd be all right…" he tailed off, looking up into his Guv's face, realising with a sinking feeling that, as he'd feared, it was in fact far from all right.

"She told you _yesterday_," Gene hissed at him, his gaze steely, "that she was going to Nottingham, _without the knowledge or consent of her superior officer_, and you chose not to say anything until today?"

"Erm – yes…" Chris looked around the room as if seeking support, but although Shaz was regarding him with horrified sympathy she said nothing; Ray's gaze conveyed nothing but slightly amused disdain, and everyone else seemed suddenly very busy with their own work. "She – she said…"

"I am not interested in what she said, Christopher, you snivelling cretin. I am heading up this investigation and it is _vital _that I know what is going on at every stage. You should have known that and it was plainly your duty to come and tell me if Drake was planning on doing anything without my authority. And that goes for all of you," he continued, raising his voice and turning to address the room at large. "This is a team effort and we do _not_ keep bloody secrets from each other. We keep each other _informed_ as to our actions and the progress of the investigation. And if I catch anyone else going off like the Lone Ranger and getting their colleagues to keep quiet for them, I will personally hang them up by the knackers until they wish they'd been castrated at birth. Is that understood?"

There was a hurried chorus of "Yes, Guv," " 'Course, Guv,", accompanied by fervent nodding from the occupants of the room. Gene sniffed in acknowledgement. "Good. It had bloody better be," and with that he strode back into his office and slammed the door.

Alone in his office he paced up and down, unable to sit, compelled to move by the anger and frustration coursing through him. The bloody opinionated cow had done it _again. _Gone off and done her own thing in her own way, without any reference to him, as if deliberately showing that she had no need of him or his methods. No respect for his opinions, no esteem for his judgment. And what was more, she had done it with full visibility in front of the rest of the team, so that they were fully aware she had disregarded his authority, pulled a fast one on him, made him look stupid. For a moment he considered phoning Jim Bordon and tearing him off a strip for allowing this to happen, for permitting his smarmy DI to cook up this plan with her; but then he realised that he'd only look more stupid, expose his lack of control over his team to more people. Probably at the moment they didn't even know that he hadn't approved Drake's actions; better to keep it like that. Still pacing, he ran his hands through his hair, unable to dispel the restless energy that burned inside him, fuelled by – deep down he admitted it – what felt like personal rejection. After five minutes he burst out of the office again and barked at the rest of the team to get on and find some new bloody leads on this rape case _now _if they placed any value on their reproductive organs, before heading down to see who was in the cells. Luckily he found that the night shift had dragged in a long-time suspected drug dealer. _Good. _He needed someone to slap.

* * *

Hazel Armstrong was beautiful, but misnamed: there was nothing hazel about her. Her eyes were a dark blue-grey and her wavy auburn hair fell almost to her waist. Tall and willowy, with skin like porcelain, Alex was sure she must have a host of admirers, but she did not seem to relish the attention. She sat nervously opposite Alex in her bottle-green jumper-dress, hugging her knees, looking painfully shy and reserved. Alex adopted her gentlest manner, trying to get the girl to relax.

As with Lesley, she began with general questions, trying to establish a rapport and gain some idea of Hazel's life and character. The only daughter of elderly parents, she was a studious girl who seemed to put a lot of pressure on herself to attain academic success. When she arrived at university just over a year ago, she had made a couple of close friends but apart from that had kept mostly to herself, studying hard. After coaxing what little information she could out of her, Alex turned the conversation to the attack. Already softly-spoken, Hazel's voice dropped almost to a whisper as she began to describe the events of the evening.

"It was a week before my exams, so I was working really hard… I was in the library until about ten to ten. It closes at ten so the librarians start throwing you out about then… so I started to walk back."

"To your hall of residence?"

"Yes. It's a little path that goes between the bushes, and it was pretty dark by then, but I wasn't scared because I do it every day, and anyway there are lights… So I was just walking along and I heard footsteps coming up behind me, but -" she stopped, gulped and continued "- he didn't go past me… He – he came up behind me and grabbed hold of me, and then -" another gulp, but she ploughed on "- and then he tried to kiss me."

Although Alex had half been expecting something like this, she still could not hide her surprise when it came. She blinked and interjected quickly, "He what?"

"He tried to kiss me," repeated Hazel blankly, clearly not understanding why this should be remarked upon. "But I didn't want him to – I tried to twist away – but he grabbed me and he was so strong… He dragged me into the bushes, and – and then he had the knife, and he said he'd kill me if I made a noise…. And…I was so scared…" The memory was finally too much for her, and she tailed off and started sobbing. "I'm – I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry," Alex assured her, giving her time to vent her emotions. "I know this is really difficult for you, Hazel, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you putting yourself through this again. Please, take all the time you need, and just try to go through what happened in as much detail as possible. Even the tiniest thing could be really important, and your mind will have all kinds of little details locked away. Just try to let them come to the surface."

Hazel nodded mutely, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "OK," she whispered.

"When you're ready, there's no rush."

Hazel sniffed and continued, "We were in the bushes and he – he kept threatening me, he said "Do just what I say, or I'll kill you" – you know, while he was putting the tape on my mouth and my hands… He looked just like they'd described on the posters, you know, the ones they'd put up after that other student was raped – he was wearing the same clothes… And he told me to pull my jeans down – and my knickers – and to lie on the ground… All the time he was shouting at me, "Do it, just do it!" And then he pulled his trousers down…and he raped me." The last words came out as a wail and she stifled a sob, but continued "I'd never done it with anyone before – it hurt so much…" Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in her hands and once again sobbed in earnest.

Alex's heart ached for the girl as she waited for her to continue. Gently she laid a hand on her arm; Hazel seemed to welcome the gesture. "You're doing brilliantly," Alex encouraged softly, "really fantastic." Eventually Hazel's breathing calmed a little; she blew her nose and found her voice.

"When he'd finished he – he got the knife, and, sort of held it for ages, while he was looking down at me…he was breathing really hard…and then he stabbed it up into me" – she flinched at the memory – "and then again – and I was so hurt and so scared, and I was trying to scream but the tape was over my mouth… but then I heard voices, some people were coming up the path, talking… and he must have heard it too, because he suddenly put the knife to my face again, to make me quiet. And he held me really still while they went past, but then he seemed to be scared, because he let go of me, and – and I think he put the knife back in his pocket – and then he did his trousers up – and he left me. I didn't see which way he went… I waited until I was quite sure he was gone before I came out, because I didn't want him to attack me again."

Alex reassured the girl once more that she was doing brilliantly well, and went on to ask her usual questions over the details of the attack: nuances of behaviour, accent, dress, action. When she had gleaned as much as she could, she asked a new question: "Was there anything about him that seemed familiar? That might put you in mind of anyone you know?"

Hazel gazed at her in surprise, puzzlement on her face: this was clearly not something she had considered. "No, why?"

"I realise it's an unusual question, but please take your time, think about it," Alex responded. Hazel did as she was told but after a few more minutes she still shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

"All right." Alex did not press the matter further. "Just one more thing then – can you think of anyone who has made sexual advances to you since you came to Nottingham?"

Again, Hazel looked dumbfounded, but also coloured a bit. "Um – well – there was my tutor. Dr Bradfield. He, er, tried to touch me in my first tutorial of the year… but I cried and asked him not to, and he never did it again… and then afterwards, everyone said that he does that to all his female students, you know, tries it on… I think some people say yes…"

Alex nodded, sighing; the story sounded all too familiar and she remembered a similar character from her own, much later student days. "OK, a philandering tutor. Anyone else?"

Still looking uncomfortable, Hazel replied, "Well… I don't know if you could call it advances. I mean, he never touched me, or even spoke to me, really… but there was this guy, in the hall of residence. His room was on the same corridor as mine, and he seemed to get, sort of – well – sort of obsessed with me. He always seemed to be following me, whenever I went in or out – and sometimes I'm sure he'd been listening outside the door, or trying to look in at my window, that sort of thing. It was really creepy and scary, it freaked me out."

"I'm not surprised," Alex murmured. "When was this?"

"In my first term. It got worse and worse until eventually I complained, so they moved me to an all-female hall. And he seemed to give up after that – I think they spoke to him as well, you know, warned him."

"OK. Is he still around though? What's his name?"

"Oh yes, he's still at the uni – a maths student. His name is Graham, Graham Davis. But look, what's that got to do with it? No-one's ever suggested it could be anyone I knew… I mean, it was that man, wasn't it? The same one who raped the other three girls?"

She looked anxiously into Alex's face, grateful to be met by her tawny gaze: serious, compassionate, reassuring. "I'm not so sure," replied Alex quietly.

After another five minutes, Alex had noted a few more details and she drew the conversation to a close. Again she heaped praise and reassurance on Hazel for all her help, and then, seeing how distraught she still looked, suggested to her that she should seek some kind of counselling to help her through her ordeal. Regretfully, she knew that such services were few and far between in 1981, but dealing with another case a few months previously she had learnt something of what support was available to rape victims. Hazel seemed really grateful for the information and as she bade goodbye to her, Alex felt relieved to have been able to offer some genuine help.

When DI Lambert returned from escorting Hazel downstairs, he asked Alex about the time of her train. "There's one at about three forty-five, I think," she replied, glancing at her watch, "but listen, before that, could I talk to you for a moment?" She looked at him intently. "I think this is really important…"

.


	6. Conflict

**Huge thanks to grainweevil and to my beta RedSkyAtNight for all their contributions and wise comments with regard to this chapter. Thanks also to all who read and review - I really appreciate it.**

Alex half-expected Gene to come storming across the road the evening she returned from Nottingham, and in some ways almost hoped he would. After all, in her flat she was on her own territory: she could stand her ground, even tell him to get out. Perhaps that thought had occurred to him too, because he didn't come. She went into work on Friday morning with her head held high, determined to fight her corner whatever happened.

She didn't have long to wait. She was just getting settled at her desk when Gene's office door opened and she heard his voice, quiet but in a tone which brooked no argument whatsoever. "Drake. In here. Now."

Sighing, she swung herself to her feet and obeyed, meeting his gaze as she entered, chin up. In her heart of hearts she knew she shouldn't have acted behind his back, but she was damned if she was going to apologise to the man who'd been such a bastard to her ever since – ever since - "Close the door," he ordered equally quietly, and she did so. She turned to find him looming over her, eyes narrowed, face furious. He leaned towards her and hissed, "_Just what the hell do you think you're playing at? _Tripping off to Nottingham without my consent?"

Alex made an effort to keep calm, to speak pleasantly. "I was working on the case, Gene, following up something that had arisen from reading through the notes. I was _trying_ to get 'something worth telling you about', which I believe was your instruction to me the last time you deigned to speak to me!" Her resolve to stay calm had already deserted her: she spat the words at him, eyes flashing.

"The last time I spoke to you, I think you'll find," replied Gene, his voice rising in volume, "was to tell you to keep me informed! This is our most important case at the moment, I am in charge of it, and I bloody well need to know what's going on! You do _not _have the authority to go off and do those interviews on your own and you know it, Drake!" He was right in front of her, in her face, in her space, furious. "You couldn't possibly have imagined I would agree to it!"

"Yes, Gene, and don't you realise that's exactly why I did it?" she yelled back at him. "I did it this way because you were so bloody pig-headed last time! I _knew_ you'd make difficulties but you're wrong, Gene, wrong! This was the best way to do it – this was how I needed to do it, but you just can't admit that, can you? Never see another point of view but your own!"

"This isn't about me!" he shouted in return. "This is about _you _and your blatant disregard for how we work round here!" He was inches away from her, livid; she could feel his heat, smell the scent of him. The last time he'd been that close had been – _oh God Alex, don't think about it. _Their proximity suddenly seemed to occur to him too, because he stopped in mid-rant, holding his breath, and then made an effort to exhale slowly. Imperceptibly, each moved a few inches back from the other, still glaring at one another, like wary animals. Gene's next words were quiet again, clipped and icy. "You just need to remember who's in charge here. I will _not _tolerate any more challenges to my authority, is that clear?"

"Authority?" she snapped back, instantly blazing. "All very well when it's _your _authority, isn't it? Completely different when it's someone else's! Don't tell me you don't flout authority and do things your own way – Jesus, you're bloody famous for it! And now you dare to tell _me _how to behave -"

"That is completely irrelevant!" he roared back. He knew she was right, and the knowledge just made him more angry than ever. "Just get this into your head, Drake – you answer to me! You _tell_ me what you're doing, _before_ you do it, you don't do _anything_ without my say-so, and if I say 'Jump!' you say 'How high?'! And if you do something like this without my agreement _one more time, _you'll be off this investigation so fast those high-heeled boots won't even touch the ground! _Do you understand?_"

"_Perfectly!" _she spat – and with that she wheeled on her heel and marched out, slamming the door so hard that all the glass in Gene's office shook. Not pausing at her desk she carried straight on, past the members of the team who had all been listening avidly to every word and were now trying very hard to look immersed in work, out through the double doors into the corridor. She didn't know where she was going, just that she had to get away. She kept walking until her feet had taken her to the canteen on the second floor, where she got a coffee and sat, still breathing heavily, trying to make herself calm down. It was several minutes before she realised that, amid all the confrontation, she hadn't actually told him her main new hunch about the case. She chewed her lip in frustration. It was vitally important, she knew she had to tell him, but she was still fuming, hurt and frustrated at how he had treated her. The thought of going back, knocking on his door, swallowing her pride, was more than she could stomach at the moment. Sipping her coffee, she wondered what to do next.

Upstairs, Gene paced his office again, sick at heart. He'd been nursing his fury for twenty-four hours and had somehow assumed that venting it would make him feel better. But the sight of Alex storming out with what looked like hatred on her face had been like an unexpected stab, sharp and painful. Now he was left with the realisation that their relationship had taken yet another turn for the worse. Could it ever be salvaged? Not if the look in her eyes had been anything to go by. The thought that he might have blown it for good started to settle on him, heavy, dark, hopeless. He poured himself a measure of whisky and sat heavily at his desk, moodily staring at nothing.

Eventually Alex went back to CID and was half-relieved, half-disappointed to find that Gene had been called to a meeting. As soon as he came back at lunch-time, he whisked out again with Ray to interview some witnesses to an armed robbery, and Alex was left in the quiet squad room with little urgent to do. Idly she watched Chris and Shaz giggling together as they put up Christmas decorations, Shaz standing on a chair to pin the foil and crepe paper shapes to the ceiling, Chris handing them up to her and sneakily feeling her legs as he did so. Alex smiled wanly. It was the eleventh of December. Suddenly Christmas seemed very close and she faced spending it alone, without her daughter, without her godfather or anyone who had helped to make it a warm, happy occasion before. Once more the feeling of emptiness crept through her, of bewilderment and hopelessness at her situation. A tear formed at the corner of her eye, but she brushed it away and tried to concentrate on the paperwork in front of her.

Halfway through the afternoon she was returning from the Ladies when she bumped into Evan White in the corridor. She had had no social contact with him since her parents' deaths, but had met him two or three times in the police station, when he'd been called in to act as a brief for someone in custody. He had always been friendly, concerned about her, and she had returned his interest by asking after him and little Alex, bizarre though it felt to enquire about her younger self. Now she felt a surge of pleasure at seeing him again and returned his smile, gazing into his frank, open face which showed nothing but gladness at seeing her. After the usual polite enquiries after one another, Evan licked his lips and began "Er – Alex – I'm glad to have seen you today – I have an invitation for you."

"Oh yes?" She looked at him with some surprise, curious.

"Yes, well, it's just that – well, I wondered if you'd like to spend Christmas with us. Me and little Alex. The thing is, it'll be just the two of us on Christmas Day, and, well, you didn't seem to have any family around either, and I thought -"

"Evan. That would be lovely. How kind of you, how thoughtful – I'd love to, if you're sure?"

At her ready acceptance, his face split into a relaxed grin. "Great! Er, you won't know where I live, will you? It's -"

"Of course I d – _ah_ – don't -" Alex stumbled over her words as she tried to stop herself. How could she possibly forget the house where she had lived with Evan as a child? But she remembered just in time that she had never visited it as adult Alex, Evan would have no idea that she knew it, so she had to look blank and pretend to make a note of the address while he explained where it was and how to find it. They parted with her agreeing to arrive on Christmas morning in time for lunch, and him promising to phone her beforehand to confirm.

Back in the squad room she felt that her mood had lifted slightly. The longing for Molly was still there, but if she couldn't have Christmas with her daughter, at least she could be with Evan - kind, dependable Evan who had always been there for her, the caring godfather with whom she had spent every Christmas from eight to eighteen. The thought cheered her.

By four-thirty, Gene and Ray were still not back and the rest of the team were looking hopefully at the clock, eager for an early Friday finish. Recognising her duty, Alex got to her feet, announced official knocking-off time and led the team down to Luigi's, where she bought the first round. She was just finishing her own drink when Ray and Gene walked in to join them. Quietly, Alex excused herself and slipped away upstairs. Gene turned to watch her go, eyes blazing for a moment, but made no move to stop her or to say anything. He turned back to the team and spent the rest of the evening doing a fair impression of a man who had never even heard of Alex Drake.

* * *

On Monday morning Alex went straight to Gene's office, knocked and let herself in without waiting to be asked. Gene looked up at her steadily, a deep scowl on his face. "Bolly. To what do I owe this very great pleasure?" he enquired acidly.

She deliberately ignored his tone, plonked herself on the chair in front of his desk and said calmly "Gene. This is important. There are two rapists."

"Wot?"

"Two rapists. Hazel Armstrong was raped by a different man."

"How d'you work that out, then?" He sounded unconvinced.

"The mode of the attack on Hazel was completely different. The attacker started by trying to kiss her – he's never done that with any of the other victims. That suggests a much more personal motive – someone who knew her. Then throughout the attack, he seemed much more nervous and disorganised than in any of the other accounts. He said a lot more – kept threatening her, repeating himself, that sort of thing. In the other attacks the man spoke very little – he just gave instructions. A key feature was how calm and controlled he was. The actual sexual act was different too. Then the cutting – not nearly as severe as on the other victims -"

"That's because he was disturbed halfway through."

"I don't think so. Yes, he was, but that's not the main reason – the way Hazel described it, he seems to have had difficulty in making himself do it at all. And afterwards, Hazel described her attacker doing his trousers up as almost the last thing he did. All the other victims said he did that _before _he started cutting them."

"Sensible bloke," murmured Gene, "putting his tackle away before he started waving a knife about…"

"Gene, this is serious, for crying out loud! Don't you see what this means? We've been putting all our efforts into following up this Slater & Co connection, because of the matchbook found at the scene of Hazel's attack – but we're barking up the wrong tree. The rape down here on our patch bears all the same hallmarks as the first three Nottingham attacks – but not Hazel. There's nothing at all to connect our rapist with Slaters. Basically, we've been going after the wrong man!"

She finished on a triumphant note, and then, realising that she had been leaning forward, agitated, made an effort to sit back calmly in her chair. Gene had not moved, just continued to stare at her intently, eyes narrowed. After a moment he took a deep breath and then exhaled it through pouting lips before raising his chin and giving her the considered answer, "No."

"No? What do you mean, 'no'?" she snapped.

"I mean, no, you're wrong. Doesn't sound right. There's been no suggestion up to now that it was anything other than one bloke. Nottingham CID would have picked it up by now if that was the case." Even as he said it, he doubted it. That lazy sod Jim Bordon wouldn't have been trying hard enough to notice anything like that. The other swotty git, though… "Shouldn't your little friend Lambert have noticed?"

Alex sighed. "Andrew is thorough, and conscientious, but he hasn't been trained to pick these things up in the way I have. Once three attacks had taken place, I think everyone just got into the mindset that it was a serial rapist, and stopped looking at the attacks so carefully. But I'm sure I'm right - and I've alerted Andrew to it now."

_Oh, of course you've told that bloody smarmy bastard all about it. Don't tell me anything, will you? _Gene frowned as he framed his argument. "Still can't agree with you, Bolly. If any of the attacks are the odd one out, it's the first one. Bloke had no disguise, no weapon, used the girl's own scarf to tie her up -"

"It was a first attack, they're often different from subsequent -"

"- or how about the third one? Daft cow that had a bath before going to the police. Convenient, that, isn't it? Anything could have happened, really, we've only got a tom's word for it -"

"_Only got a_ – Gene Hunt, I do not _believe _you sometimes!" Alex sprang to her feet, amazed, infuriated that he could be so blinkered. "You are just being deliberately blind and stubborn about this, but I'm telling you, Gene, you're going after _the wrong man!_" And with that she swung around and stormed out of his office, subjecting the door to its second glass-rattling slam in four days.

* * *

Alex found the rest of the week incredibly frustrating. She'd never considered that Gene would dismiss her theory when she finally presented it to him. Now, every time she heard the others discussing the case, still focused as they were on the Slater & Co connection, she wanted to scream. Every day she challenged Gene about it, but he continued to tell her that she was wrong, and to direct the investigation accordingly. Very soon the rest of the team were aware of the difference in opinions between their DI and DCI, and although they had little choice but to do what Gene told them, the atmosphere in the squad room became increasingly strained.

On Wednesday afternoon, after another particularly heated exchange with Gene on the subject in front of the whole team, Alex found herself frustrated to the point of tears and sought refuge in the kitchen. She searched her pockets unsuccessfully for a tissue and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, angry with herself for giving in to such weakness but angrier with him for prompting it. A sound behind her made her straighten up and turn around, but unexpectedly it was Ray who had followed her into the kitchen.

Ray had found the last few weeks confusing. He didn't really know what was going on between his Guv and his DI, but he recognised that it was of a different character from their previous arguments, which had usually blown over quite quickly. This one seemed explosive, bitter and long-lasting, and he was getting fed up of the bad effect which it had on the whole team. Fiercely loyal to Gene, he would usually have been quite content to lay all the blame at Alex's door, but from the conversations he'd heard this week he was starting to wonder if she might not be on to something with her theory about two rapists. He knew the Guv was stubborn, but he did wonder if Gene might be displaying a lack of professional judgment in dismissing the idea; after all, it had quite often turned out that Alex had been right before. In any case, he hated to see a woman cry, particularly one as usually strong and feisty as her.

Alex sniffed and hiccupped, still looking unsuccessfully for a tissue; Ray regarded her uncomfortably for a moment, then pulled a handkerchief out of his own pocket and offered it to her, murmuring "Here, ma'am." Alex accepted it gratefully, before noticing that it was decidedly grubby and well-used. She dabbed at her eyes rather gingerly and searched for a clean corner on which to blow her nose. Meanwhile Ray was busying himself with the kettle. "Cup of tea, ma'am?"

"Thank you, that would be lovely," she replied rather thickly, sitting down at the small table and sniffing again. She was unexpectedly touched by Ray's solicitousness; he rarely made a cup of tea for anyone but himself, and then only if he couldn't persuade anyone else to do it. When he not only plonked the mug down in front of her but accompanied it with a pink wafer, she could hardly believe her eyes. "Oh, thanks, Ray," she said gratefully, her appreciation of his sympathy momentarily outweighing her dislike of the sickly little biscuit.

"That's all right," he murmured, looking embarrassed. They both turned as Shaz entered the kitchen. "Are you OK, ma'am?" she enquired, sitting down opposite Alex, her big dark eyes full of concern.

"I think so, thanks, Shaz," Alex sniffed, giving her a shaky smile. "Or I will be soon, anyway."

"Yeah," agreed Shaz; she looked full of sympathy and as though she would have liked to say a lot more, but didn't think it politic to broach the subject of Gene and his behaviour. After a moment she said brightly: "You comin' to the Christmas party, then? Viv's just been round collecting names."

"Christmas party?" repeated Alex blankly; the news of this seemed to have passed her by. "When's that?"

"This Saturday night, ma'am – the nineteenth. For the whole station. It's at the police social club, you know, round in Leman Street. It's a bit borin' at the beginning," she added confidentially, "'cos all the bigwigs from upstairs give speeches and that, but then there's a buffet and a disco, and usually we go on to a club or somethin' afterwards. You've got to come," Shaz finished in a wheedling tone.

In her present mood, enforced Christmas jollity with the other denizens of Fenchurch East was the last thing Alex wanted. "Well, I'm not sure, Shaz…"

"Oh, go on, ma'am, it'll be a laugh! Won't it, Ray?" Shaz turned to the sergeant for support. "You're coming, aren't you?"

"Course I am," replied Ray, glad to be back on relatively safe ground. "Great opportunity for pulling." He rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles in anticipation, eliciting pained looks from both women. Alex was just opening her mouth to reply when Gene appeared round the corner and sharply asked "What's that?"

"Christmas party, Guv, this Saturday," Ray replied. "Good for pullin'. Shaz were just trying to persuade the Inspector 'ere to come to it."

"Is that right?" There was a dangerous edge to Gene's voice. "Well, Ray, Granger, I advise you to stop wasting time discussing your social lives and find some work to do pronto, or I will find some for you." That sent them muttering and scurrying back into the squad room, leaving Gene alone with Alex. He bent down in front of her and looked her in the face, noting her red-rimmed eyes with a pang of guilt. _Shit. What am I doing to her? _Setting his jaw, he addressed her: "With regard to the Christmas party, Drake, there's no persuading about it. You _will _be there because your position as a senior member of this team demands it. Good for morale. The team expect to see you there. Understand?"

Her earlier anger had evaporated; she couldn't find the energy to fight on this one. Couldn't even meet his eyes, she stared at the table. "Yes, Guv," she croaked in a small, sad voice that made Gene feel worse than ever.

"Hmmph. Good, then," he harrumphed back at her, before heading back to his office and closing the door.

Sitting at his desk he stared into space, lost in thought. He knew he was being a bastard to her and that felt bad enough; on top of that, though, he was starting to have the sneaking suspicion that he was being a bad copper. He'd told himself that he had good reasons for dismissing her theory, but really, he wasn't so sure. He'd just been ready to disagree with anything she said, because she said it. Pouting, he allowed his mind to admit the possibility that Alex might be right about the two rapists. Right about that girl – what was her name? - Hazel. Hazel Armstrong.

_Hazel…like Bolly's eyes… _He thought of her eyes as he'd just seen them, red-rimmed, tear-smudged, and all because of him… Pained, he shook his head to clear the image, trying to wrench his mind back to the case, but her eyes stayed with him. _Bolly's eyes…_dancing with laughter when they'd shared a joke, back in the summer. Sparkling, alive, irresistible. Her eyes, huge with fear and questions, when they'd been locked in the vault and she'd whispered "I can't die…can I?" He'd held her close, wanting to give her all the comfort he could offer, even though there was precious little available, and he didn't think he'd ever forget the feeling as she had snuggled into his neck, accepting his embrace. And then, in that hotel…_her eyes_…inches from his, widening with delight as he'd entered her…as he'd joined with her, so good, so right… He groaned out loud, tormented, wanting her, wanting her trust and her need and her joy as well as her body. Then he heaved a huge sigh. He didn't think he'd have any of them again.

* * *

Friday evening came round again and once more Alex slipped away from the CID crowd, up the stairs, and let herself quietly into her flat. For the past two days she and Gene had reverted to ignoring each other, communicating only indirectly. The atmosphere was poisonous and she just wanted to get away from it, withdraw into her own space. She turned on a lamp and the fire and sat on the sofa in the semi-darkness, trying to summon up enough interest to turn on the TV. Then she remembered that Friday night meant _Terry and June _and gave up on that as an option.

She'd wanted to get away but now that she was here, she felt desperately lonely. She loved the flat with all its 1981 kitsch, but it wasn't home. Home, and Molly, seemed unimaginably far away, and she had real doubts that she could do anything to influence getting back there. She felt a desperate yearning for a warm, safe place, somewhere she belonged, somewhere she felt truly home. A sanctuary. She bit her lip as she realised with a sudden irony that the one, the only place she had felt truly safe since she arrived here, was in Gene Hunt's arms.


	7. Romeo and Juliet

**OK, I have taken a bit of a liberty in this chapter, in that there was nothing in the TV series to suggest that little Alex Price was into ponies; but I wanted to write about something I could relate to.**

**Big thanks to RedSky for wise comments and for beta-ing in defiance of food-poisoning; to grainweevil for her extensive knowledge of old films; and to my friend Manda for her detailed description of the shop described herein.**

**I own no characters or song lyrics contained herein. Hope you enjoy.  
**

On Saturday morning Alex awoke with a clear purpose in her mind. True, there was the Christmas party that evening to worry about, but before that, she had to do some shopping.

On Friday, at lunchtime, Chris had earnestly entreated her to go out to the shops with him and help him choose a present for Shaz, and she'd been happy to oblige, still feeling rather guilty at having landed him in trouble over her visit to Nottingham the previous week. It had concentrated her mind on the subject of presents. She felt desperately sad that she couldn't buy anything for Molly – choosing and wrapping her daughter's gifts had always given her immense pleasure – but after the invitation to Evan's she realised that she would have to get something for him, and, bizarrely, for her younger self.

_What did I want most in the world when I was eight? _The answer came to her almost instantly, no need to think – the long pored-over advertisements in _Pony _magazine sprang immediately to mind, with that never-to-be-forgotten tagline, _"A riding stable on a table." _She had pleaded and begged but neither her parents nor Evan had ever given in. Well, now, she was going to grant her own dearest wish.

The advertisements were so ingrained in her memory that she had no trouble remembering the address, even though she'd never been there. She threw on her jacket and a scarf over her sweater and jeans and set off into the crisp, sunny day. Taking the Tube to Knightsbridge, she pushed through the throngs of Christmas shoppers, jostled this way and that as she passed Harrods, and turned left into the quieter surroundings of Beauchamp Place.

Number 18 was about halfway down on the left; a glass display case of the coveted toys told her she was in the right place, but the shop itself was downstairs in the basement. She followed the stairs down, turned to her left, and at last found herself in the hallowed environs of the Julip shop.

The walls were covered with letters, drawings and blurry photos, all from children writing to say how much they loved their little latex horses. In the space which a kitchen range would have once occupied stood a large cupboard housing the models themselves – large and small, many breeds, all colours, each with hand-painted detail and silky mohair mane and tail. Ranged around the shop were the accessories to go with them: saddle, bridles, riders, rugs, grooming kits and haynets, even stables. It was a horse-loving child's dream come true.

It didn't take Alex long to choose which one to buy – the grey Welsh pony was exactly what she had wanted as a child. The price made her realise for the first time why her parents had never indulged her wish, but in spite of the expense she could not resist also buying tack, a child rider, and a rug and surcingle for the little horse. _What the hell_, she told herself, _it's no more money than I'd spend on Molly if I could. It's not as if I've got hundreds of other people to buy for – hardly anyone, in fact… _After that it was easy to justify the grooming kit, haynet and water bucket too. Eventually all her purchases were parcelled up and she left the shop highly satisfied.

Deciding what to get for Evan was more of a problem. She decided that ties, socks, aftershave and so on were too personal – they were the kind of thing a girlfriend might buy, and she didn't want to encourage Evan to take that view of her. She remembered that he liked port, but it seemed a bit of an old man's drink – would he appreciate it now, barely thirty? She tried to think of alternatives; champagne seemed too redolent of a particular event, a celebration. They'd drunk martini at her flat, but the recollection of the 80s style cocktail glasses and Evan's ridiculous hand-dancing made her giggle with embarrassment – no, she didn't want to go there again. Sod it, he could have the port – she knew he'd like it eventually. She made her way to Fortnum and Mason's and bought a bottle of 20-year-old Taylor's tawny, knowing it would become his favourite brand.

After that she found herself rather at a loss. Surrounded by crowds but feeling hugely alone, she wandered down Regent Street, trying to take an interest in the shop windows, but without the imperative of something to buy, she could raise little enthusiasm. Shaz had been putting much effort into choosing a new outfit for the party, but since Alex didn't even want to go to it, she was certain it didn't warrant new clothes. After a while she went back to the flat, wishing, not for the first time, that it had a bath where she could while away the afternoon instead of just a shower. That option denied, she flicked on the TV and with delighted surprise found _Bringing Up Baby. _ After an hour or two of watching Katharine Hepburn pursuing Cary Grant and a missing leopard with equal enthusiasm, she felt sufficiently restored to shower and get ready for the evening. She still didn't know what to wear but in the end she put on the black blouse which she had worn for her 'last supper' with Gene, over two months ago in Luigi's, that evening when she had been so sure that she would be going home… _No, don't start thinking about that. _She wrenched her thoughts back to the present, did her makeup, flung her jacket on and headed out.

It was only five minutes walk around the corner to the police social club. The venue for the party was a large, low-ceilinged, modern room without much character, to which someone had tried to add festive spirit by means of lots of shiny foil Christmas decorations. Most of the room was carpeted and filled with small round tables and chairs; at one end was a bar, at the other a dance-floor where flashing coloured lights announced that the DJ had set up his mobile discotheque. It was already quite crowded and she picked her way slowly in between the chairs, finding the CID crowd clustered around a couple of tables close to the bar. She sat with Shaz, Chris and some of the others, studiously ignoring Gene who was talking to Ray at the other table.

To begin with the party was quite as much of a 1980s nightmare as Alex had imagined. She sat sipping the complimentary drinks – lukewarm Liebfraumilch from plastic cups – while listening to what felt like interminable patronising speeches from the station's top brass, each punctuated by a grudging ripple of polite applause. Then came the buffet, all turkey vol-au-vents, sausage rolls and defrosting black forest gateau, eaten awkwardly from a paper plate whilst trying to make polite conversation with her superiors. Eventually the Superintendent and his cronies retired to a corner, the bar opened, the lights lowered, and Noddy Holder hollering 'It's _Christmaaaas!'_ announced the start of the disco.

Twenty minutes later, Alex was starting to feel better. She had a proper drink inside her and she and Shaz were sitting together, unable to stop themselves giggling at the sight of Chris and Ray, thumbs tucked into their waistbands, enthusiastically doing the Status Quo dance to _Rockin' All Over The World. _When Quo were replaced by Soft Cell's _Tainted Love, _it didn't take much effort for Shaz to drag Alex onto the dance-floor, and she whiled away the next hour quite painlessly, knocking back the wine and dancing energetically to a string of her childhood's hits.

Gene meanwhile sat smoking and talking to Ray, who had been driven off the dance-floor by 'that poof record'. While he was occupied, Alex found it reasonably easy to ignore him, but after an hour or so Ray decided it was time to make a determined move on the ladies from the typing pool, and Gene was left sitting alone. She only glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but all at once she was very aware of him watching: black-shirted, pint in hand, wreathed in smoke, scowling like a gargoyle. Suddenly the dancing made her feel self-conscious; she left the floor and headed to the bar for another drink.

Turning away from the bar, drink in hand, she found Shaz and Chris; they and some of the other younger uniform were going on to a night club, and Shaz pressed Alex to go with them. Glad of an excuse to escape, she didn't take much persuading; quickly knocking her drink back, she donned her coat and accompanied them somewhat unsteadily into the night.

Still seated at a table, Gene watched her go. She hadn't looked at him all evening. It was no more than he had expected, but he was surprised at how much it hurt. He stared morosely into his pint, his mind going back unwillingly but inexorably over their altercations during the past week. The past three weeks. That night in Nottingham… _oh Christ. _Until then, yes, he'd wanted her, but he hadn't ever really believed it would happen. It had just been a fantasy, something to imagine in an idle moment, an impossible dream. Since then - since he'd actually held her, tasted her, felt her need, thought that he had met it - he had only wanted to have her again. But it seemed as though she didn't want him. At all.

The beer wasn't doing much to dull the aching rejection inside him; to touch that, he'd have to move on to whisky. For which, he reflected, he really ought to go somewhere else; he didn't have any desire for the station top brass to see him getting totally pissed. Whilst he was still finishing his pint, the DJ slowed the spinning lights and put on a quieter number; the more energetic dancers left the floor, while couples joined up and started smooching, wrapped around each other. Gene watched with some distaste as the gentle guitar introduction was followed by lyrics: _'Lovestruck Romeo, sang the streets a serenade…'_

_Bloody romantic crap. Time to get out of here. _But as he downed the last of his pint, the words wormed into his consciousness, hauntingly appropriate: _'And I dreamed your dream for you, and now your dream is real / How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?' _That was what bloody hurt the most, the way she looked at him nowadays, when she did, which was seldom. For weeks he'd seen nothing in her eyes but dislike, anger or bitterness; or even, sometimes, what looked like resolute indifference. _'Now you just say, "Oh Romeo? Yeah, you know I used to have a scene with him".' _That was it, over, finished. No more fantasy, no more hope.

He got to his feet, shrugged on his coat and headed towards the door, striding past the still-entwined couples on the dance floor. As he left the room and started down the stairs, the words of the song drifted after him, still sharply poignant: '_All I do is miss you, and the way we used to be / All I do is keep the beat, and bad company…'_

* * *

Once outside in the chill air, walking along the street with Shaz and Chris and the rest of the giggling throng, Alex soon realised that she didn't really want to go to a club. She felt eons older than the rest of them and her dark mood was starting to return. Making the excuse that she was tired, she ignored Shaz's pleas of protest, parted from the group and walked the short distance back to her flat. When she reached the street corner, though, she paused, tempted by the warmth and sounds filtering up from Luigi's. She was already pretty drunk, but in her present mood she craved oblivion. A nightcap before bed would help. She headed down the stairs.

Half an hour later, she was already well through a bottle of red wine when she left her corner of the bar to go to the loo and saw Gene, seated by the mural, deeply involved with a large Scotch. He was so preoccupied, staring into its depths, that he didn't see her when she passed. He glanced up when she returned two minutes later, but didn't meet her eyes. She couldn't help but look again at him though, for some reason noticing anew his black shirt. It was the same one he'd worn that night in Nottingham. He'd abandoned his tie now and the open collar revealed his throat, the base of his neck. She swallowed. Suddenly she remembered what his skin smelled like. What the hell. She didn't want to be alone tonight. She retrieved her bottle and glass and made her way over to him.

Lost in his whisky, Gene looked up to find her there, swaying slightly. He raised his eyebrows. "Bolly. I thought you weren't talking to me."

She made no reply, just gave the exaggerated shrug of the very drunk, and sat down next to him. She poured the remainder of the wine into her glass and raised it to him, ironically. He raised his in return and they both drank. After savouring the whisky in his mouth, he swallowed and laconically remarked, "Lousy party."

"Appalling," she agreed, taking another swig of wine, and they sat side by side in a silence that could almost be called companionable, both too drunk and emotionally exhausted to keep up hostilities. After a while she leaned closer to him and looked earnestly into his face. Slurring slightly, she confided, "Gene. I didn't mean for it to all go wrong between us, you know."

He looked intently at her, his eyes searching her face. God, she was drunk. He ought to leave, but, looking into her eyes, slightly unfocused but for once, empty of dislike, he knew he couldn't. She was pissed as a rat but she seemed to be offering him a second chance and he couldn't find it in himself to pass it up. After what seemed a long time he quietly replied, "Me neither."

They both took another drink and then she moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder, sighing softly. He looked down at her, feeling her warmth, inhaling the scent of her hair. This was it. Maybe if he just wrapped his arms round her and kissed her, it would all be all right. Maybe she would yield to him, accept him, kiss away all the rejection and hurt of the last few weeks. He put one arm around her shoulders, drawing her tight to him, and with the other hand gently touched her face, raising it to look at him, smoothing his thumb across her cheek and then down to her mouth. When he touched her lips she responded, softly kissing the tip of his thumb, her eyes gazing into his. At that point he gave up thinking as he replaced his thumb with his mouth, lips gently exploring hers, becoming more insistent as he found the sweet taste of her mouth, half-forgotten in the past weeks. She felt, smelled, tasted so good and he had missed her so much and he didn't want to let go, not tonight, no matter what might happen afterwards. Breaking the kiss he murmured against her mouth "Bolly… Alex…" Hungrily she kissed him again before breathing her reply. "Yes… Gene… yes." There was barely room for the words between kisses. Her hand was on his chest; he breathed in sharply as she moved it down to his thigh. Drawing back slightly he looked searchingly into her eyes again: when he said, "Upstairs," it was part-question, part-statement. She simply said, "Yes," before giving him one last kiss and standing up. She had to grab at the table as she did so, but then steadied herself and walked towards the stairs, Gene following close behind her. He was just conscious enough of the surroundings to be glad that no-one else from CID seemed to be in Luigi's that night.

At the top of the stairs, he stood waiting somewhat awkwardly as she fumbled about in her bag for her keys. When she found them it took her several attempts to insert the key in the lock and eventually he put his hand over hers to guide it. They crashed through the door together, hands still touching, mouths reaching for each other again, dropping bags and coats in the hall as they kicked the door shut and moved quickly towards the bedroom. Once there Alex darted away to turn on the bedside lamp before returning to Gene to kiss him once more and pull at the buttons on his shirt, running her hands over his chest. Craving him she nipped and kissed at his neck, his throat, moaning with pleasure as she felt his hands roaming her body, disposing of her blouse, exploring her breasts. She wanted him so much, wanted him now, no matter what might go wrong tomorrow. _Please, just one more night_. She arched her back, pushing her breast into his hand, nipples already aching for him, and he growled at her eagerness, pulling at her bra to get to her flesh. As she started to undo the belt of his trousers he kissed down her neck, making her squeal as he rolled her exposed nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth found the swell of her breast, he moved lower, closed his lips on her nipple, sucking greedily, but even as she cried out in appreciation, the memory of last time and its consequences wormed its way into her mind and she pulled back, managing to gasp, "Gene – have you got a condom?"

He stopped as if frozen, looking bewildered, as though he barely understood the question.

"_Wot?"_

"A condom! Have you got one?" She was wide-eyed, wanton-looking but also wary now. The significance of the question began to sink in and he replied, incredulous and with the beginnings of anger, "You are joking me!"

"I'm not joking." It was a statement, flat, serious. "So you haven't got one?" She sounded almost accusatory.

"No!" How could she accuse him? He frowned. "Aren't you on the Pill?"

"No, I'm not on the bloody Pill!" she snapped back, her mood lurching drunkenly into sudden annoyance. How could he make assumptions like that?

"Why not?" He looked genuinely bewildered, not to mention furious as he saw the longed-for coupling slipping away out of his grasp.

"What do you mean, why not?" Her voice was shrill, indignant. "Have you _any idea_ of the health implications? High blood pressure, increased risk of cancer…Not to mention the environmental impact! Why should you think I was?"

"I just thought you would be!" It was simple enough, wasn't it? "For Christ's sake, what's the point of the Pill being invented if women don't bloody use it?" He wanted this so much, and now she was going to cry off because of some poxy health scruples?

"So you just _assumed_ that it's the woman's responsibility?" She was irate now, incredulous that he could be so old-fashioned.

"Yes!" Well, it was, wasn't it? It wasn't him that was going to end up pregnant…

"How dare you assume that?" she screamed at him. Her bra was still hanging off, flesh exposed, hair wild; she looked like an Amazon. "That is just such an irresponsible, chauvinist, archaic attitude -"

"It didn't seem to bother you last time!" he hissed, his voice harsh now, wounded by her rantings.

"I got carried away!" she yelled. "And do you know how long I spent _worried sick_ that I might be pregnant afterwards? No, of course you don't, because _you_ never gave it another thought -"

"But -"

"Get out!" She was in full flow now, ranting, beside herself. "Out! God, how could I even _think_ of sleeping with an out-dated, selfish, sexist _fossil_ like you?"

That was it. His self-control finally snapped, goaded beyond bearing by her insults. "I'm going!" he roared, pulling his shirt back around himself and grabbing his jacket, "I came up here for a shag, not to be called names!" He turned on his heel and left the room, seizing his coat as he swept through the hall. Alex heard the door slam as she stood in the bedroom, half-naked, starting to feel sober, shaking with cold and fury.

* * *

_That was bloody stupid, Hunt, _thought Gene to himself as he crawled into his own bed half an hour later, starting to sober. _We could have managed without a condom. She could have sucked you off like she did before… _His cock began to stiffen at the memory of that morning in the hotel… the way she'd touched him, stroked his balls and the top of his thighs… _oh yes_… His hand moved down and he slowly began to work himself as he thought about it. _The feel of her hot breath_…_her hot mouth, licking, teasing_… his hand worked faster… _the amazing things she'd done with her tongue_… _with her lips_…_ohhh_… faster… he ran his thumb over the head of his cock, breathing quickly, clenching his teeth as he thought about the way she had licked him, just… _ahh__…_just _there…_ _one more stroke… two_… and he came into his cupped hand, groaning with longing for her, craving the intimacy as much as the sex.

* * *

_That was bloody stupid, _thought Alex as she lay in bed, bewildered, angry and alone. _We didn't need a condom – hell, I know that – lots of things you can do without one…_ Why had she got angry, why had they had that stupid row? When all she really wanted was him, warm, strong, holding her, enveloping her, caressing her. Giving pleasure… she remembered the way he had explored her, before, hands and mouth expertly playing her, driving her slowly but inexorably towards climax. Her own fingers worked herself as she thought about his mouth on her, his warm tongue sliding over her, into her, tantalising the very centre of her until she convulsed, crying out, sating her need but not her loneliness. When she was still she lay awake for a long time, sobbing quietly, tears running into her hair, until at last she cried herself to sleep.


	8. Layton

**This chapter owes a lot to many people. My thanks to my beta RedSky, who is there at the beginning and the end of the process; grainweevil, who contributed many good ideas and seems worryingly good at channelling her inner Arthur; and Lucida Bright, who ages ago gave me an idea which ended up in this chapter.**

**Thanks also to all who read, especially if you review - I love reviews!**

Alex spent Sunday nursing the worst hangover she'd had for months. When she went back to work on Monday, she could hardly bring herself to look at Gene. Inside she was a turmoil of emotions: acute embarrassment at what had happened; anger with him for his attitude, and in truth, with herself for reacting as she had; and, sharper than anything else, the hurt caused by his last words. _'I came up here for a shag…' _That's all it was to him, then. A shag. A physical act for his own gratification. All this time she had harboured the desperate hope that he actually cared about her, that there was something real in the tenderness he had shown during their first encounter, but now that seemed to be dashed. He wanted her for sex; he didn't like or respect her as a person, or even, it was becoming ever more obvious, as a colleague. If she hadn't been nurturing her anger like a young viper, she would have wept and never stopped.

Gene found he could look at her, though, his face set hard in lines of extreme dislike. He too was angry both with her and with himself, but underlying that, he was wounded. She'd called him a fossil. The words _out-dated _and _archaic _had been somewhere in there as well. She couldn't have made it any clearer that she thought he was too old for her. Too old in his attitude, even though he'd tried to change it, to adapt to the bewildering modern world that he found himself in. But more than that – too old in actual physical years. He knew how old she was, of course, he'd seen her file, the irrefutable evidence of how many years separated them. It was one of the things that had made him wary of making a move earlier, but as they'd become closer, he had started to think that it didn't matter to her. Now, it seemed obvious that it did, and the very impossibility of narrowing the gap filled him with a desperation that manifested itself as cold fury.

Monday passed with the same freezing atmosphere as many of the preceding days. Shaz and Chris's description of the escapades of one of the young PCs at the nightclub fell on stony ground, and even Ray's satisfaction at having pulled a busty red-haired secretary was not enough to thaw the ice. On Tuesday morning, Alex felt a little stronger, determined to get her head down and concentrate on the work. When she heard Gene yet again discussing the Slater & Co connection in their hunt for the rapist, she felt compelled to speak. With a sigh she enquired, "Gene, _how many times _have I told you that Hazel Armstrong was raped by a different man? Slater & Co have nothing to do with our case."

"Thank you, DI Drake, your comments have been noted." Gene's tone was freezing; he did not even glance up at her.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Alex was frustrated beyond measure. "Even someone doing GCSE psychology could work it out -"

Abruptly he rounded on her, eyes blazing, spitting the words at her. "Listen, Little Miss Mind-Reader, _when _I want your opinion I shall ask for it! Until then, why don't you stop peddling half-arsed theories and get on with something bloody useful for a change!" Turning on his heel he strode back into his office, slamming the door.

Alex stood open-mouthed, gasping for breath, too shocked even to cry. The venom of his tone had astounded her even more than his words. Realising that the rest of the team were staring she summoned what dignity she could, walked stiffly to her desk, sat down and yanked a file towards her, determined to prove her worth as quickly as she could.

Ten minutes later, she was still fuming when the phone rang. She picked it up absent-mindedly and answered, "Drake?"

"Hello, Alex. Remember me?" Immediately she heard the rasping voice her blood ran cold; she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She would know that voice anywhere. It haunted her nightmares. Layton.

"What do you want?" she hissed, heart pounding, any semblance of a professional approach completely forgotten. She could feel sweat breaking out on her palms.

"Now, now, Alex, where are your manners? What would mummy and daddy say?" His tone was snide, calculated to get under her skin. "It's more a question of what _you _want."

"What do you mean?" she snapped.

"Want information, yeah? Want to know who raped that nurse? The one that was in the papers? I might know something about that."

Alex took a deep breath, regaining some self-control. "Don't play games with me," she replied, trying to sound confident. "What do you know?"

"All in good time, Alex," the wheedling voice continued, playing her like a fish on a line. "Let's have a chat, eh? Down at my place. I know you'd like that."

"Listen, I -"

"Nah, you listen. Listen, and you might learn something. Just you, though. Face to face. Just you. Come on your own, or I don't tell you nothing." She was drawing breath to reply again, but he had hung up.

Still sitting at the desk, she ran her hands through her hair, trying to get her thoughts in order. Since Gene and Evan had agreed to destroy the evidence about the car bomb, there was nothing to link Layton to it, and he was still out on bail, pending his drug-dealing trial. He had been keeping a low profile but she supposed he was still running his junk-yard in Shadwell; it was a supposedly legitimate business, after all. Could he really know anything about this case? She was quite sure that the rapist operated alone, had no accomplices, but he could have been observed. Someone could have seen something, heard something. Layton had his ear to the ground; the attack on Karen Blake had taken place not far north of his yard. He had a whole network of criminal contacts, and rumours got around. The rapist could even be a drug user, one of Layton's clients, although she was sure he wasn't high when he attacked. It was tenuous, but if you discounted Slater & Co, which she did, they had next to nothing in terms of proper leads on this case and anything was worth investigating. Furthermore, Gene's words still rang in her ears: "…_get on with something bloody useful for a change!_" It was a challenge, and one she wanted to meet. _Right, Hunt, I'll show you useful. I'll go and find out something more useful than this dead-end alley you're forcing us all into…_

Reaching her decision, she stood up abruptly, the feet of her chair scraping against the floor. She looked around the squad room, which was quiet; Shaz was filing, Chris and Ray downstairs doing interviews. Gene's door was still firmly shut. She knew she really ought to tell someone where she was going, but approaching Gene was unthinkable. After a moment's consideration she scribbled a note and left it on Ray's desk, before heading down to the front desk. "Viv? Can you get me a squad car?"

* * *

The sky was grey and a cold wind was carrying little flurries of snowflakes as Alex parked by the railway arches and walked towards the entrance to Layton's premises. She shivered and pulled her jacket more tightly around herself. She tried to tell herself that it was only the weather, but in truth the whole place gave her the creeps. She could not think of Layton or anything connected with him without horrible images playing in her mind: the shadowy figure in a grey coat, watching as the car exploded; Molly screaming "Mum!" as the gun was pressed to her head; the sickening lurch of shock and terror as she had turned around to find him in the back seat of her car; and over and over again, inescapable, the bullet as it hurtled towards her. Shaking her head, she concentrated firmly on the here and now, reached the door, and knocked firmly on it. There was no response. After another knock had failed to have any effect, she pushed the door; it opened and she stepped inside.

There was a sharp contrast to the cold and the whistling wind outside. In here it was still and very quiet, and although chilly, not bitter. She moved slowly inwards between the tall rows of shelving, the miscellany of mismatched objects, her heart thumping, tension rising in her throat even as she tried to swallow it down. She could not see or hear anyone, but she had the unpleasant prickling sensation of being watched. "Layton?" she called, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. There was no reply. "Arthur?"

As she turned towards Layton's cubby-hole of an office, a sound behind her made her turn, and he was there. Still the same rough grey coat, unshaven, cool blue-grey eyes surveying her, a sneering smile on his face. She tried to look calm but her heart was pounding in her chest; he unnerved her even more than she had expected. She made a painful attempt to swallow as he moved slowly towards her, speaking in that soft, wheedling tone that sent chills right through her: "Alex Drake. How nice to see you."

She took a deep breath and held her ground, forcing herself to look at him. "Hello, Arthur." She was dismayed to hear the slight tremor in her voice. "You have some information for me?"

He continued to stalk towards her, softly, smoothly. "Might have."

"Stop playing games, Arthur." Her voice was still higher than it should have been. "What do you know?"

He stopped and stood in front of her, watching her, assessing her reactions. "About that nurse?" he asked teasingly. "From the London Hospital? Walking back to Shadwell? Last month? Got attacked by some pervo?"

"_Yes,_" she replied, more emphatically than she meant to. She forced more deep breaths, but could feel herself beginning to shake: his mere proximity disturbed her. "What have you got to tell me?"

He came closer and closer, staring like a snake, until his face was inches from hers. Close up, she could see that he was more unkempt than a few months ago: still the same flashy suit, but his hair was lank and dirty and he smelt as though he hadn't had a bath in a while. He was more reminiscent of the down-and-out he'd become in 2008, and that did nothing to dispel her fear. More than anything she wanted to get away, but she was determined not to step back in weakness. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, holding her unwilling gaze, then unexpectedly he laughed. "Don't know nothing."

"Arthur - "

"Know what I read in the paper, that's all." He indicated an old newspaper lying on a table amid a jumble of items; the headline was about the attack on Karen Blake. She wanted to argue further, but had a horrible, sinking feeling that he was telling the truth, that this was not about the rape case. "What then?" she demanded, hating the way he was controlling the situation. "What's this about?"

He grinned again and began to circle her like a wolf circling prey; she started to turn to keep him in view, but he moved quickly and was suddenly behind her, one of her arms twisted up behind her back, his breath on the back of her neck. Instantly in her mind she was back in 2008, his captive as he forced her along the river towards the gangway of the abandoned barge; she felt the panic rising within her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs, too frightened to struggle. Her flesh crept as she heard his voice, just behind her ear: "Might be about all sorts of things, Alex."

"I don't know what you -"

"Oh, but you do, Alex. You do know what I mean." Abruptly he released her arm and continued his slow circling, round to face her again, his voice oily. He picked up a piece of rag from next to the newspaper and held it close to her face; the pungent scent of petrol filled her nostrils, making her eyes water. Involuntarily she jerked her head back. "You know about… things that burn, for example." He dropped the rag into a metal bucket on the floor: she was unable to see what else was in there. "Things that might even…" he reached into his pocket and drew out a box of matches, "... _explode_." Slowly, deliberately, he held a match up in front of her face and lit it. She was mesmerised, horrified, unable to tear her eyes away. Was he now, finally, going to blow both of them up? All those years ago, her father had instructed him to destroy the whole family, but she had escaped, by a fluke she had been out of the car… was he now going to finish the job? To kill her here in 1981 – perhaps that would, finally, complete her slow death in 2008… She felt as if the walls were closing in, the blood pounded in her head, deafening, her vision limited only to the flame which danced in front of her eyes, hypnotising, horrifying… she was powerless to do anything but watch… she could hear him laughing, singing, "One flash of light…"

He dropped the lighted match into the bucket and the flames leapt upwards; with a shrill scream she jumped backwards, scrambling to get away, half-falling over debris on the floor, until she felt the cold damp bricks of the wall against her back. Even as she registered that there was no explosion, only the fire contained in the bucket, the smell of the burning petrol reached her and the car exploded again in her mind, the boiling fireball filling her consciousness, the nausea, the screaming… Stomach heaving, she closed her eyes to try to blank it out but when she opened them again Layton was there, right in her face again, and this time she was against the wall and she had nowhere to go. Desperately her hands scrabbled behind her; a nail sticking out from the wall gashed her but she barely noticed, fear blanking everything else from her mind. Layton was laughing at her, his stale breath making her gag: "You'll do what I want, Alex…" She was terrified, paralysed, staring at him as helpless as a rabbit in a snare, totally his captive.

Alex saw only the triumph in Layton's bloodshot eyes, heard his rasping breath, smelt his stale sweat. She didn't see the bright red car hurtle into the yard, sliding sideways, screeching to a halt. She didn't hear the shouting or the running footsteps as the occupants of the car pelted towards the building. She was briefly aware of a door banging open, and then Gene Hunt rose up behind Layton like an avenging angel and seized him by the scruff off the neck and slammed him into the wall so hard that it knocked out all his breath and one of his teeth.

Ray and Chris were just behind him, staring around, gauging what was going on; Ray heaved Layton around and administered a swift punch to his stomach, making him crumple to the ground. Chris's anxious face swam into Alex's vision: "Ma'am? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I…" A wave of nausea and dizziness hit her and she clutched at him, steadying herself. Still holding onto his arm she took a deep breath, then looked up, only to see Gene's furious face.

"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing, coming down here on your own?" he demanded. "Of all the stupid, irresponsible, empty-headed – Christ! I _told _you after you'd been to Nottingham, never to do something like that again! I made it quite clear - you _tell_ me what you're doing, _before_ you do it, and you don't do _anything_ without my say-so! I cannot _believe _that you -" he broke off, looking disgusted. "Chris, take her back to the car. Stay with her." He turned away and gave his attention to Layton again; Ray had followed up his punch to the stomach with a few well-aimed kicks and Layton was now sitting against the wall, looking dazed and nursing a bloody nose.

Alex allowed Chris to lead her to the Quattro, where they both sat in the back seat. Feeling totally drained, she leant her head back and closed her eyes. She didn't know, didn't care what was happening to Layton. For a minute or two she didn't care about anything, but as terror receded and objectivity returned, she began to feel ashamed. How on earth had she let herself get so frightened, handed Layton control of the situation? It wasn't as if he had had a weapon, she hadn't really been in any danger… but he had known how to play her, to manipulate her mind, and she had let him. Just as if she was a helpless child, as if she had never had any training. As though she knew nothing about psychology, body language or even basic police procedure. She was appalled at her capitulation, and painfully aware how she must appear to Gene: her heroic mission to get some real information had ended in failure and disgrace. Bitter tears welled in her eyes and she rubbed angrily at them, hating her own weakness.

After a few minutes Gene returned, dispatching Ray to bring back the squad car. He did not even look at her as he got into the Quattro, and they drove back to Fenchurch East in silence. When they arrived, Alex was starting to frame words of apology, but before she could get them out, Gene turned to her, flint-faced, and merely instructed "Go and sort yourself out." Gulping down all the things she wanted to say, she retreated to the Ladies.

* * *

Gene sat in his office, door closed, glass in hand, trying to bring some order to his thoughts. Barely an hour ago he had been sitting here like this, when Ray had knocked on the door, frowning, a note in his hand . "Guv…" As soon as Gene had read it, he'd had an odd feeling of foreboding, he didn't know why. Logically there was no reason to suspect that Alex might be in any particular danger, and yet… He could not shake off an uneasiness about it. The decision to pack the team in the car and go had been instant, he didn't even think about it, just knew he had to. Driving towards Layton's yard, his misgivings had increased; he remembered Layton in the Scrubs, the way he'd behaved to Alex there. He seemed to have a particular thing about her and an ability to get to her, wind her up… what was he planning? Gene couldn't think of anything in particular, but at the same time, he didn't trust Layton as far as he could spit. The closer they got to the yard, the more his unease turned into cold fear. It gnawed at his guts, churned within him at the thought of what Layton might do to her. And underlying everything, ever stronger, increasing his urgency to reach her, was the knowledge that it was at least partly his fault. He was sure she wouldn't have gone off on her own like this if he hadn't treated her so badly, hadn't snapped at her this morning – and he knew that if something happened to her now, he would never forgive himself.

When they had burst through the door and smelt the petrol, for a moment he had thought all his worst fears were confirmed – the relief in seeing that she was all right had been almost overwhelming. His anger and terror had needed an outlet; dealing with Layton had assuaged some of it, but when he saw her white, dazed face, his first reaction had been to shout at her. He had needed to rant, to take it out on her for getting into such danger, for scaring him so much. The minute he'd finished shouting, he had wanted to take it all back, but he didn't know how to begin, and anyway, Chris was there, and it was all such a mess, so he'd just brought her back and said nothing.

As he was sitting brooding, there was a knock at the door; it opened tentatively, and Alex came in. He could see that she had tried to tidy herself up, but her face was still pale and blotchy and there were smudges of mascara around her eyes. He felt a surge of emotion within his chest; he wanted nothing more than to wrap her up in his arms. She didn't look at him, but kept her eyes focused on the floor. He got to his feet, but before he could say anything, she took a deep breath and spoke, sounding as though she had already rehearsed the words in her mind.

"Gene, I'm – I'm really sorry about what happened today. You were right, it was entirely my fault and it shouldn't have happened. You told me before about doing things on my own, and it – it was bad procedure to go there without taking someone with me."

He began to say something in reply but she held up a hand to silence him and ploughed on. "I behaved stupidly and irresponsibly, both in going there, and in allowing Layton to take control while I was there. I was weak and unprofessional, I forgot everything I knew – in short, I was a liability." She paused, and tentatively raised her eyes to his. "I accept full responsibility, and you would be quite justified in taking me off the case." She stopped and waited for the inevitable tongue-lashing, the sarcastic, wounding response.

For a long moment he returned her gaze, grey eyes burning into her. There was silence, then -"Forget it" he said shortly.

She was taken aback. "But, Gene, I mean it, I -" Her voice was higher than usual.

"I said, forget it." His tone brooked no argument. He moved towards her around the desk and lowered his head to look into her face. "You all right now?"

God, it was much harder to deal with him being nice than him being angry. Her throat constricted with tears again; she gulped them back down. And he was standing so close to her, his scent and his warmth only inches away, concern radiating off him too. She wanted to fling herself onto his chest and sob with relief. With a huge effort she drew in a shaky breath and replied, "Yes, I think so."

"Good." He nodded, turning back to the desk to pour her a whisky. "So, did Layton know anything?"

"No," she admitted, still ashamed. "He just wanted to play games with me."

Gene merely grunted in response and held out the drink to her. "'Ere." As she stretched out her hand to take it, he saw the cut where she had caught it on a nail. The blood was drying now but it was quite deep and she winced as he took her hand to examine it more closely. Stroking it very gently with his thumb, he murmured, "You're hurt."

"I'm – I'm fine. It's nothing – just a scratch."

He was still studying her hand intently; for a moment she thought he was going to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it better, but then he seemed to recollect himself and let it go.

"Get someone to look at that, Bolly. It looks nasty." He retreated behind the desk.

"Yes. Yes, I will," she replied, not meeting his eyes. Quickly she gulped the whisky down, the fiery spirit burning her throat. "I'll go and do that now." She put the glass down and hurriedly left the office, leaving him staring after her, pouting thoughtfully.

* * *

Alex didn't really understand what had happened, but on Wednesday the atmosphere in CID was better than it had felt for weeks. For some reason Gene had decided to drop hostilities; he still seemed to avoid her a lot of the time, but it felt like a different kind of avoidance, born of caution or even embarrassment rather than anger or dislike. The fact that it was nearly Christmas had made everyone else either excited, stressed, or disinclined to do anything, according to their character and circumstances; certainly not a lot of work was being accomplished. People gossiped about their plans or made last-minute lists of things to be done or bought. Gene played darts, and everyone knocked off half an hour early and went for a drink at Luigi's which rapidly became jolly and raucous. Alex enjoyed it, but slipped off upstairs after half an hour, keen not to repeat her drunkenness of Saturday night.

Thursday was Christmas Eve and the morning was even less productive; everyone was just marking time. At lunchtime they began to slip away, Ray to begin the drive to Manchester, others to families similarly far afield. Chris and Shaz did not have such a long journey to Shaz's parents in Essex, but soon they had become so giggly that Gene told them unceremoniously to get lost, and they too left. By half past two Alex found herself the only one there, sitting at her desk sorting some reports for filing, while Gene sat in his office, boots on the desk, smoking. Against her will she started to feel a kind of nervous excitement as she realised that they were alone together. She tried to concentrate on the reports, but jumped visibly when she heard the sound of his feet on the floor and he came over to stand by her desk, frowning thoughtfully.

"No need to stay, Bolly. Leave whenever you want." His voice was gruff but not hostile.

"Oh, er, thanks. I'll just finish off with these – should only be ten minutes. Is that OK?" She looked up, not quite meeting his eye.

"Hmmn. Fine," he grunted, and after a moment walked slowly back to his office. He wanted to ask her what her plans were for Christmas, but then she might ask him the same question, and that would mean admitting he didn't have any. Just another lonely sad bastard, spending Christmas on his own with a bottle of single malt and the telly. He wasn't proud of it. So he said nothing.

Slightly unnerved, she finished her sorting in five minutes, picked up her things and stood up to go. She crossed to his office and stood awkwardly in the doorway, not sure what to say. "Er, 'bye then, Guv. See you on Tuesday." Monday would be a Bank Holiday in place of Boxing Day. "Umm… have a good one."

"Yeah. You too." He raised his chin to look her squarely in the face. For a fleeting moment he thought of asking her to go for a drink with him, but then thought better of it. It was less than a week since she'd been screaming abuse at him. She was unlikely to want to socialise with him. So he just watched as she smiled a little awkwardly, turned and walked out of the double doors.

* * *

Alex went back to the flat and tried to get her mind around tomorrow, finding the things she would need to take to Evan's house. The presents for him and little Alex, already carefully wrapped, beautifully presented with bows: it was something she always took pleasure in. Wine and chocolates to take too, as a thank-you for his hospitality. She arranged everything on the coffee table and then sat, at a loose end, waiting for the time to pass. The winter evening drew in quickly but she did not turn the lights on, nor the TV, just sat in the dark, not exactly brooding, not really thinking or feeling anything. She was tired and needed to be empty and still for a while. Eventually the thoughts, the emotions came slowly back to the surface, one by one, like bubbles emerging from a deep pool. Gradually a new consciousness of her situation filled her. Far from home, further removed from the people she knew and loved than she had ever been in her life, separated from them not by space but by time itself. It caused a sadness too profound even for fighting or for tears, a weight within her, but one which she found a new ability to bear, almost, even, an acceptance.

There was one thing, though, that she did not have to accept. By six o'clock she knew that she did not want to go to Evan's. She recognised his great kindness in inviting her, but it would just be too weird, too strange, to re-experience that remembered first Christmas with him after her parents had died. Furthermore, previous experience had shown that she just did not know how to react to her childhood self. With any other child she could be natural, warm, friendly, but looking into her own face just freaked her out, left her tongue-tied and awkward. That would not be fair on the child or on Evan.

She stood up, turned on a lamp and looked at the clock. Six-thirty. She wanted to go round straight away to offer her apologies, but then she remembered that Alex and Evan would be at church, at the Christmas Eve crib service which had formed a regular part of her childhood. Suddenly she felt a tremendous yearning to be a child again, back among the familiar and comforting elements of a church Christmas: the warm candlelight, flickering over the old stonework; the wreaths of holly and ivy; the sweet smell of incense; the ethereal sound of the choir. And most of all, her very favourite part, the crib: a bright, warm light shining down on the large, painted wooden figures as they stood in the model stable on real, fragrant hay. The ox and the ass, the shepherds, the rich vibrant colours of the robes of the wise men; patient Joseph standing in the background, ready to look after and protect his family; the Virgin Mary, young, innocent, beautiful in her powder-blue robe, gazing adoringly at the infant Jesus who lay peacefully, pink and white and golden, in the hay-filled manger. She remembered standing there as a child, drinking in the scene, candlelight reflecting in her own eyes as she gazed at the beloved figures, filled with an unearthly sense of peace and joy and certainty of God's love. Now she had no certainty about anything any more, about God's existence, never mind his love; about her own existence, just where the hell she was and what was real and whether she was alive or dead. The tears which had been absent earlier spilled down her cheeks now as she mourned the security of childhood. She wiped them away with her fingers, angry at the knowledge that they wouldn't help, nothing would help.

Eventually, it was late enough that she knew they'd be back home, so she washed her face, re-did her make-up and phoned for a taxi, only then realising that it was Christmas Eve and they would all be busy. She had to wait, and it was nearly nine o'clock before she was giving the cabbie directions to Evan's house in Camberwell. Then came the drive through the darkened streets, busy in some places but quieter as they got into the residential area, Christmas tree lights glinting through the front room windows. The taxi drew up outside Evan's small terraced house and she asked the driver to wait, then, heart beating anxiously, stepped out onto the pavement, up the brick path, and knocked on the so-familiar front door.

After a moment Evan opened it, his face splitting into a smile when he saw her, but surprised too. "Alex! I wasn't expecting you till later – are you all right?"

"Yes – yes, fine," she stuttered, unsure how to say what she had to say. "Look, erm, I'm really sorry, but I can't come over tomorrow."

He frowned, concerned, confused. "Oh! Er – right, but…"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, hating to disappoint him, "something, er, something's come up and I just can't… so I've brought these round anyway, for tomorrow." She held out the wrapped presents.

"Oh… thanks…" Evan stuttered, taking them from her. A movement behind him in the hallway caught her eye, and she glanced up to see little Alex hanging over the banisters, in pyjamas, huge dark eyes watching her curiously and slightly distrustfully. Alex gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and Evan followed her gaze, turning to see what she was looking at. His voice deepened as he tried to sound stern, warning, "Alex, go back to bed! Father Christmas won't come unless you're asleep."

Alex couldn't help smiling to herself as she remembered being on the receiving end of such admonishments. Even as a child she'd instinctively known that Evan was hardly ever really cross with her, however stern he tried to be. It made the one or two occasions where she really had done something wrong and incurred his displeasure much, much worse. She tried to concentrate again as he turned back to her. "That's a real shame, Alex – erm, would you like to come in anyway? Have a drink?"

"That's really kind of you, but I'd better be going – the taxi's waiting." She gestured towards it. "Thanks anyway, and, er – I'll see you…"

"Yes – maybe another time?" he called after her hopefully as she turned and headed quickly back down the path.

Outside the flat, she paid the taxi driver and walked slowly up the stairs. Really, she thought to herself, it was ridiculous relying on taxis like this: if she was going to be here for any length of time, she should get herself a car. Then she stopped, horror-struck at the realisation that she was actually contemplating staying here, making plans on that premise… But after a moment she sighed and resumed her climb with a return of the heavy acceptance she had felt earlier, that, for reasons she couldn't quite grasp, staying here now seemed increasingly likely.

* * *

Alex woke at her normal time the next morning but stayed in bed, lacking anything to get up for, any prospect of seeing anyone, hoping to go back to sleep, feeling she would be quite capable of spending the whole day in bed. After a while she did sleep again, although more lightly, drifting in and out of odd, nonsensical dreams, until she was woken abruptly at 11 am by the phone ringing. Stumbling out of bed in her nightshirt, she headed unwillingly into the cold living-room and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Drake? You awake?" It was Gene.

"Umm, I am now…"

"Good. Get dressed. I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."

"But…what? Why?" She was still sleepy and none of this was making sense.

"Work to do, Bolly. There's been another girl raped. Fifteen minutes." She heard the click as he put the phone down as she stood, rubbing her eyes in the sunlit room.


	9. Christmas Day

**Once again, thanks to my beta RedSkyAtNight for all her input into this chapter, particularly her inspired vision of Chris and Ray's Christmases. Big thanks also to grainweevil for** **wise comments, some of which I had the temerity to ignore. Sorry weevil.**

**I also want to say a big thank you to wombledon, who has given me lots of really helpful advice on police procedures etc, throughout this story. I apologise sincerely for not having given credit before - I deeply regret it.  
**

**Thanks for keeping up the level of reviews - please let me know what you think of this one!**

Alex was ready and waiting by the time Gene arrived to collect her. She got into the Quattro and they both kept a slightly uneasy silence as Gene started it and roared off. After a moment, though, he cleared his throat and, staring straight ahead, utterly surprised her by asking, "So, you think there are two rapists, right?"

She was too shocked even to be sarcastic, and simply replied, "Yes, I'm sure of it."

"Hmmn." He grimaced a bit, sniffed, and with his eyes still on the road, admitted "I, er," – he coughed – "I may have been a bit harsh with you about that."

"Is that an attempt at an apology?" Her tone was genuinely questioning, not sour.

He gave a non-committal grunt. "If you like. Just sayin' you might be right. And, er, perhaps in that case we can stop calling each other names and get on with catching the bastards."

She raised one eyebrow. "A truce, then? A Christmas truce? Is that what you're offering?"

"S'pose so. Although," the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, "I wasn't planning on playing football in No Man's Land with you."

She gave a small giggle in return and instantly the atmosphere improved, relaxed. He felt so relieved that he grinned and added, "I'd win, anyway."

"Huh." She smiled as she said it. Then, noticing for the first time the direction they were taking, "Gene, where are we going?"

"Barts."

"Barts? That's not in our area. That's City Force."

"The rape happened in our area. St Katharine's Dock, early hours of this morning. But the girl lives in Golden Lane, and she started walking home – God knows how. She was nearly at Barts when she collapsed, luckily some passer-by found her and took her in there."

"Hmmm. Anything else?"

"Her name – Helen James. No other details yet." They lapsed into silence again until they arrived at Barts.

The day was chilly but bright as Gene parked in West Smithfield, usually so busy but today deserted. Together they walked under the hospital's ornate archway with its statue of Henry VIII, and through the outer courtyard past St Bartholomew the Less. Enquiring at the Porters' Lodge, they were told where to find Helen James.

They walked into the central square, winter sunlight gleaming off the elegant white eighteenth-century buildings, filtering through the bare branches of the majestic plane trees, sparkling on the water falling from the fountain. It felt very calm and peaceful; a far cry from how Alex remembered it in 2008, denuded of the stately trees and full of parked cars.

As they entered the block they wanted, peace and quiet gave way to the hospital's noise and bustle. Christmas decorations hung incongruously in the corridors, along with the smell of institutionally-cooked sprouts and gravy. They reached the ward, and the sister directed them to the small side-room where Helen was.

A shock awaited them as they opened the door. Helen's face was disfigured: swollen and laced with cuts, now dark with dried blood and bristling with stitches. Somewhat to Alex's surprise, Gene's manner was gentle and quiet as he introduced them, asking permission to speak to her and assuring her it would not take long. Helen seemed weak and talking was evidently uncomfortable for her, but she agreed to try and tell them what had happened.

She was nineteen, and lived with her parents in a flat in Golden Lane. She had been unemployed for almost a year, but had recently found temporary work in the run-up to Christmas in a bar in the newly-redeveloped St Katharine's Dock. She had been working there last night until closing time, and then set off to walk home, but had gone only a few hundred yards before the attacker had grabbed her from behind, forced her into an alley and there carried out an attack almost identical in manner to those on Nadine Taylor, Lesley MacNeil and Karen Blake. The major difference was, of course, that he had gone on from slashing her genitals to use his knife on her face also. A chill ran down Alex's spine as Helen recounted how before leaving her he had crouched over her, gazing into her mutilated face, and muttered, "Never again."

There was a moment's pause, and then Gene gently prompted her to continue her story. "Then what, luv?"

"I know I should have gone back to the bar, or phoned someone, or something, but I wasn't thinking straight…" Helen's voice had got stronger as she told her story but her composure had weakened; now she sniffed, sounding close to tears. "I just wanted to get _home_…" The last word came out as a wail as she finally gave in to sobs. Alex reached out and gently squeezed her hand. After a few moments she took a shuddering breath and continued.

"So I just kept walking… but I was bleeding, and I got weaker and weaker and in the end I must have passed out… next thing I knew, someone had brought me in here on a stretcher. And after a bit Mum and Dad came, and Mum held my hand while they stitched me up…"

Alex reassured Helen that she was doing really well in telling them her story, and encouraged her to cast her mind back to the evening in the bar. "Was there anyone who was paying particular attention to you, watching you?" The bar had been very crowded, mostly with smart City types; Helen mentioned a group of about half a dozen who had been particularly drunk and loud and had harassed her with lewd comments all evening. However, after further questions from Alex she seemed fairly sure that her attacker's voice and manner had been different. Alex tried another tack. "Was there anyone who seemed to be on their own, or who didn't quite fit in to the group they were with?"

"Oh, now you mention it, there was this one bloke…" Helen had noticed the man in question precisely because he was on his own, and was not a regular. As it was so busy she had not had leisure to give him much attention, but had been marginally aware of him sitting quietly in the corner for an hour or two, drinking slowly and not speaking to anyone. Her description of him was very vague – tall, dark – but tallied with what she recollected of her attacker, and with the descriptions given by the other victims.

After gleaning all the information that seemed available, Alex and Gene thanked Helen and arranged to speak to her again in a few days, when she was feeling better. She looked very tired and sank back onto the pillows, but as they were getting up to leave, she suddenly sat up again. "'Scuse me but -" she looked at Alex "- do you have a mirror? My mum wouldn't let me see how I looked, but I want to know."

Alex's heart lurched, but she reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small hand mirror. She handed it to Helen who quietly but intently studied herself for several moments, turning her head this way and that to see the full effect of her bloodied, swollen face. Eventually she murmured quietly, "God, what a mess." She looked up at Alex. "I'm supposed to be getting married in May, you know," she said suddenly, before looking back at her reflection. "But what's he going to do now? What's he going to say, my Pete?" Another sob rose in her throat and a tear rolled down her cheek as she asked plaintively, "Who's going to want me now?"

At once Alex sat down again, facing her, reaching for her hand. "Helen, listen to me." She gazed into the girl's face. "If your Pete is anything like a half-decent man, he will want you just as much as he ever did. And if he's not, then you're well rid of him."

Helen nodded, sniffing. "Yeah, I know you're right, but… it's so hard to imagine… I don't want to look like this on my wedding day…"

"I know." Alex gave her hand another squeeze. Gene watched her, thinking about what she'd just said. Would he still want Alex if some sicko had done this to her: raped her, cut her, left scars on her beautiful face? Of course he would. He'd want to hold her close and safe, never let her go, kiss every scar so she knew just how little they mattered to him. That's after he'd torn the bloke who did it limb from limb, of course…

His thoughts were interrupted as a junior nurse put her head round the door and asked Helen, "Are you ready for your Christmas dinner now, darlin'?' Helen weakly assented, Alex once again made their farewells, and they walked together back down the corridor, both deep in thought.

As they got into the car, Alex asked "So, are we going to do any more over Christmas?"

Gene pulled a face. "Not much we _can_ do. I sent some plod off to have a look at the scene of the crime, I'll read his report. Dispatch a few more of 'em to start trying to trace who was in the bar, then when Ray and Chris get back they can go and talk to them. And of course, we'll talk to her again when she's in a fit state. Apart from that… well, you heard. No witnesses to the actual crime, and I'll bet no-one has a clear memory of that bloke she mentioned. She didn't remember him clearly enough for an artist or a photofit. All we've really got is her description of the attack – and that's your department."

Alex looked sharply at him, surprised by this apparent acknowledgment of her skills – for so long he had done nothing but rubbish them. "Yes," she responded, half a second late. "Yes, I'll write up what she said, and have a think about the implications for the profile."

"Good work," he grunted, surprising her again, and they lapsed into silence. Alex felt frustrated by Gene's assessment of the situation, but she knew he was right: there was so little to go on that it was really not worth recalling the other staff. Even in 2008 it would have been a difficult investigation; now, in 1981, it was nigh on impossible. She sighed, looking sightlessly out of the window, thinking about the young woman they had just met.

While they had been talking, her professional instincts had been in charge, but now she had leisure to think about it, she felt the true impact of the crime. There Helen had been, happy, busy, looking forward to Christmas with her family and her fiancé, and now suddenly she was lying sore and scarred in a hospital bed, violated, uncertain of her future beyond an institutional Christmas dinner to be eaten on her own. The eerily quiet way in which she had inspected her reflection for some reason affected Alex, making her quite choked up. As they neared her flat, her feelings were compounded when she remembered her own situation. Going to the hospital had given her something to concentrate on, but now the rest of the day yawned ahead again: empty of joy, of company - empty, above all, of Molly. Tears prickled her eyes and she rubbed angrily at them – _not again_. She seemed to have spent most of the last month crying, one way or another, and hated her weakness, but then again, how could she ever have expected to be handling what the past few months had thrown at her?

As Gene parked outside her flat, he looked at her and noticed her red-rimmed eyes. The case was obviously getting to her, and he couldn't say he blamed her. Fighting back the urge to embrace her, he tentatively touched her arm with the back of his hand. "Don't worry, luv," he said quietly, looking earnestly at her, "we'll catch this arsewipe. I promise you we will."

"Yes." She sniffed, trying to look calm – what must he think?

He wasn't fooled. He walked round to her side of the car and opened the door for her. "C'mon. Get up them stairs, and I'll make you a cup of tea."

For some reason she was struck by his solicitousness, not the fact that he was inviting himself into her flat. Once inside, she took refuge in the bathroom to wash her face and calm herself, leaving Gene to put the kettle on as he had offered.

He made the tea and, upon opening the fridge to get some milk, was struck by its virtually empty state. A quick survey of the cupboards revealed a similar lack of provisions. When she emerged he met her in the sitting room, handed her the mug of steaming tea and watched her take a few fortifying sips. After a moment he asked gruffly, "Bolly, what exactly were you planning on eatin' today?"

"Oh, er…" Expecting to go to Evan's, she hadn't thought about food for Christmas, and had been too preoccupied to plan for the days beyond, either. She'd probably end up living on beans on toast. "I'm not really sure…"

"Bloody hopeless woman." He tried to hide his concern by sounding irritated. "You could, er," – he was suddenly uncomfortable – "you could always come round to mine. S'not exactly turkey with all the trimmings, but it'd be a hot dinner." He looked at her intently, waiting for her reaction. Could it possibly be that easy?

"Oh, um…" She was wrong-footed, caught unawares. The baggage of the past few weeks was still in the back of her mind, but just at the moment it was being outweighed by his unexpected kindness, not to mention the lure of not having to spend the rest of the day alone. "Well, if you're quite sure…"

"Definitely." He tried not to look too pleased. "Drink up, then, and we'll get off."

"At least let me bring something…" Alex drained the tea and grabbed the bottle of wine that she had intended to take to Evan's, then followed Gene down the stairs.

* * *

Ray Carling finished the last of the drying-up and hung the tea-towel over the radiator. His Christmas Day had followed a familiar and enjoyable pattern so far. A few days earlier he'd quietly slipped off work early for his annual trip to Hamley's, and the presents he'd selected for his niece and nephew seemed to have met with a large amount of approval this morning. His sister Pat had cooked the usual huge and delicious Christmas lunch, and although privately Ray had always considered his brother-in-law to be a boring sod, a few pints before lunch and a generous amount of wine with it had served to make his company more bearable. Now, glass of whisky in hand, he settled himself on the sofa and switched on the TV. As the opening titles of the afternoon's James Bond film started to play, Ray felt highly contented with his lot.

A few minutes later, Pat Fosdyke came through the kitchen door, drying her hands, to find her brother fast asleep on the sofa, mouth open, green paper party hat askew. Contemplating him, she smiled to herself, thinking about the children opening their presents this morning. She'd long ago given up hope of him ever settling down and having his own children, but whatever his shortcomings might be, Ray was a good uncle. Craig had been made up when he ripped open his giant Scalextric set, although the enthusiasm with which Ray had spent the morning playing it with him did make her wonder exactly whose present it was. And Louise had fallen instantly in love with the beautiful baby doll that Uncle Ray had given her, and refused to be parted from it for a moment since. Pat felt a glow of affection. When it came to family, he was generous, her brother.

* * *

In a similar doorway in a house in Essex, Sharon Granger stood watching as Chris knelt on the living-room floor, painstakingly helping her sister Claire to set up all the pieces for 'Mousetrap'. She was overjoyed at the way Chris had fitted into her family, charming her parents and playing and joking endlessly with her little brothers and sisters. In fact, she had to admit to herself, there was something slightly alarming about the juvenile enthusiasm with which he immersed himself in 'Sorry' and 'Buckaroo'. It was almost like his second childhood. Telling herself off for being uncharitable, her hand stole to the golden locket around her neck. It was beautiful, delicately engraved, and Shaz was pretty sure she detected DI Drake's tasteful influence in its choice. But that was not a problem - she loved Chris all the more for wanting to buy her something so beautiful, and for going to such pains to get it right.

* * *

Alex had never been to Gene's flat before. The door opened onto a tiny hallway where Gene awkwardly took her jacket and hung it up before ushering her into the sitting room with "Make yourself at home, Bolly." He disappeared through a further door, his bedroom she assumed, while she looked around curiously, taking in the bland, modern surroundings. Magnolia walls, beige carpet, cheap mushroom-coloured velour suite. She didn't know what she had expected, but this wasn't it. It seemed far too tidy, stark and impersonal; there were no pictures on the walls, few personal items of any description. When Gene returned, having taken off his jacket and tie and put on a bottle-green pullover, she was struck by how at odds he seemed with his surroundings, his untidy hair and sprawling limbs in contrast with the flat's sterile, lifeless feel. He looked out of place in his own home. She felt something almost like pity.

Gene took the bottle of wine she had brought into the kitchen and returned to hand her a large glass of it. "'Ere, get that down your neck." As she sipped it he added ,"Sit down, then, look as if you're staying. I'll go and get dinner on," before heading back into the kitchen.

Alex did as she was told and sat on the sofa, still intrigued by the room's lack of character. It occurred to her that anything of Gene's that really meant something to him, anything that gave a clue to his personality, was in his office at work. That was where he kept his dartboard, his trophies, his photos and newspaper cuttings, all the collected bric-a-brac of his career. That was the space he had personalized, made his own. In many ways, that was where he lived. This flat was just where he slept.

Hearing him bustling about with pots and pans she got up and went tentatively into the small, modern kitchen. "Um, is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, luv, you sit down, I'm fine." It sounded like an order, so she went back to the sofa and sat, grateful for the warmth and the distraction of being somewhere other than at home, trying not to think about Molly.

The interview had taken up the middle of the day; it was after four o'clock and starting to get dark by the time he reappeared, bearing two plates piled with sausages and mash. The smell was wonderful and Alex realized how hungry she was. Gene set the plates on a small table which stood against the wall, then fetched cutlery, and the wine to refill both their glasses. Alex seated herself at the table, commenting "Gene, this looks wonderful. Ooh, gravy too," she added as he re-appeared bearing a steaming jug.

"Of course, Bolly." It was only made with Bisto powder, but she didn't need to know that. "I'm not completely helpless, you know." He had been, pretty much, when his wife had first left him, but she didn't need to know that either. At least he could knock a meal together now. "Dig in, luv."

She dug in. The sausages were tasty, fried with onions, and the mash was fluffy and full of butter. After a few moments, searching for something to say, she commented, "It's a nice flat."

"Huh. Hate it. Just chose the first thing I found, when I moved down here – first one that was in reasonable nick and close to work." He paused, frowning. "Do you realize this is the first meal I've eaten at this table since I've been here? Usually just eat on my lap."

She didn't know how to respond. "Well, it is Christmas."

"Christmas. Hate that, as well."

"You can't hate Christmas, Gene. You must have had some good ones?"

"Not really. When I was a kid, the old man would get drunk, and then you never knew what he was going to do. Then, after I got married, I always spent it with the wife's family."

"Not a great experience?"

"Not really. I had the mother-in-law from Hell." He paused, then gave a small, wry smile. "I s'pose everyone thinks that."

"Yes," replied Alex, before adding ruefully, "Actually, I thought that too." He laughed, but did not probe any further. He didn't want to talk about his ex and he didn't think she would want to either. Nevertheless, they both felt more comfortable, and soon the wine and the warmth relaxed them and they chatted quite comfortably through the rest of the meal. After Gene had opened another bottle, it almost felt as though they were back to their relationship of several months ago, and both were grateful for it.

The meal over, Alex offered to wash up but Gene wouldn't let her. "Bollocks to that, it can wait till tomorrow. Come and sit down." He poured himself a whisky and sat on the sofa. After a moment Alex picked up her wine glass and joined him, tucking one foot under herself so she was facing him.

* * *

Chris and Shaz sat on her parents' sofa, his arm around her shoulders, both stretched out and weary from the day's activities. Claire, Anthony and Dominic had been packed off to bed at last, and Annie was in her room listening to her new Adam and the Ants LP. Shaz's parents had tactfully left them alone for a while and they were the only ones in the room, lit only by lamps and the flickering glow from the coal fire. Chris couldn't remember when he'd had a happier Christmas. His own Christmases as a child had always been quiet, his elder sister too grown-up to play with him, and since she had emigrated it had been a very subdued affair with just him and his parents. But Shaz's warm, noisy family had welcomed him with open arms and he'd been in his element, chatting happily to her mum and dad and playing with the children. It was kind of her parents too, he thought, to buy him a present; he hadn't expected that. It was just a shame, of course, that it was Paco Rabanne and the Guv would roast him alive if he ever wore it for work. As for Shaz's present to him, the Entex PacMan 2 game was exactly up his street and he was chuffed to bits with it. Brilliant though it was though, he reflected, it wasn't as good as lying here in the firelight with Shaz's warm, soft body resting against him, her head on his shoulder, smooth hair against his face. It was a pity that her parents had given them separate bedrooms, and that his guest room was miles away from hers down a creaking corridor, but just at the moment, he wasn't going to let even that dismay him.

* * *

On another sofa, Gene was several whiskies down, relaxed, long legs stretched out, socked feet on the coffee table. They had talked themselves to a comfortable silence and Alex sat at the other end, covertly watching him. The lamplight picked out his long eyelashes, and his chest softly rose and fell with each breath. She longed to move closer to him, snuggle into him, rest her head on his chest; but it was too soon, too much of what had happened between them was still unaddressed. _So near, and yet so far. _Still, she really appreciated the way he had behaved today.

"It's been lovely, this afternoon – this evening," she offered quietly. "Thank you."

"S'all right," he answered gruffly. "You looked like you needed it, that's all."

"Yes. Sorry about that – you know, earlier. I know it's useless getting upset, but it wasn't only about the case. The thing is, I – well - " She took a deep breath. "I'm beginning to think that I won't be able to see my daughter again."

Gene frowned. "Her dad got custody of her or something?"

"Yes," she replied, sighing. "Something like that." She gazed at the floor, feeling empty, wondering how she could possibly explain.

Gene looked at her, moved by the sadness in her face, and said then abruptly "I had a daughter once. Still do, I suppose."

"What?" She looked up at him, startled, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

Gene took a slug of his whisky and then blew out slowly through pursed lips, gathering his words. When he began to speak he was very still and his gaze looked at though it was focused on something several miles away.

"I was eighteen. I'd just started my National Service. I'd been seeing this girl – Jenny. Seeing her regular, like, for six months. Her parents never liked me, though. Thought she could do better. They were probably right." He paused, took another sip of whisky and continued.

"Well, I'd been in the Army for eight weeks or so, doing the basic training, and then I came home for a couple of days leave and – well, she ended up pregnant. When she found out, she wrote and told me, and I wrote back. Offered to marry her. I would have done, too." He glanced at Alex to make sure she believed him. "Only her mum and dad wouldn't let her. Still thought I wasn't good enough for her, and said that she was too young, anyway – she was younger than me. So they sent her away to have the baby, and made her give it up for adoption straight away. That's what they did, in them days."

Another pause: Alex could not tear her eyes from him, she was so fascinated by this unexpected glimpse into his past. He continued. "She wrote to me, when the baby was born, to tell me it was a girl. But I never saw her again. Knew there was no point, what with her family and that. After a couple of years I got married - I think she did too."

He sipped the whisky. "I never did have any kids with the missus. S'pose it was her fault, seeing as I'd already had one…" His gaze was still miles away. "She always said she didn't mind, but I could tell she did. I'm not _that _insensitive." He shot a sharp glance at Alex, as if daring her to contradict him, but she said nothing, merely nodding. She wanted to offer words of understanding, but didn't know what to say. Gene returned his gaze to the coffee table and spoke almost to himself.

"A daughter. I've never even seen her… but I still wonder about her, sometimes. Where she is, what she's doing." A silence. "Whether she looks like me." The line between his eyes deepened as he frowned slightly. "She'd be twenty-six now, going on for twenty-seven. Hell. I could even be a granddad by now, for all I know." He seemed to come back slightly from his reverie and looked at Alex, grey eyes burning as he said forcefully, "It's a bastard, not knowing."

"_Yes._" She returned his gaze and for a moment there was a searing empathy between them as both felt the hopeless pain of a parent who has no idea what their child may be doing. Then he turned away and gave his attention to the whisky.

Alex was silent for a few moments, thinking. Something had occurred to her and she knew she was risking a lot by bringing it up, but contrariness made her unable to stop herself. "Hang on a minute. You've caused an unwanted pregnancy – you've experienced all the trauma it can bring – and yet you _still_ believe that contraception is the woman's responsibility? How can that be?"

He looked at her, discomfited. Neither of them had alluded to the events of the previous Saturday until now. _Shit, she's got a point. _He couldn't fault her logic, but the connection had never occurred to him before. "Yeah, well," he bluffed, "that's different, isn't it?"

Alex didn't see that it was, but she recognized how much it had cost him to open up and tell her the story, and she didn't want to take their newly-found amity a step backwards. So she let it go, merely shrugging and turning back to her wine, and after a moment, steered the conversation onto other things.

Eventually, when they'd had coffee, she guessed that he was about as sober as he was going to be that evening, and asked him to drive her home. When they pulled to a halt outside Luigi's, closed and dark for once, she turned to him and gently laid a hand on his arm. "Thank you," she said quietly, "for saving my Christmas."

He snorted, embarrassed, trying to hide how pleased he was. "What, with sausage and mash? Any time, luv." He looked at her face, pale under the sodium lights, those huge eyes shining… God, he wanted to kiss her. Should he? Things were better, but he suspected they were a long way from that stage.

"No, I mean it," she insisted gently. "It's been lovely." On an impulse she leant forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, before drawing back, unsure of what she had done. "I'll, er, see you in a couple of days, then." She was looking down now, busy finding her keys.

"Yeah. See you," he replied quietly. When she got out of the car he did not move, but sat and watched until the light came on in her flat. Almost unconsciously, his hand moved to touch the place on his cheek where she had kissed him. He stayed like that for what seemed like a long time, eyes and thoughts distant, before sighing and driving away.


	10. New Year's Eve

**At long last, here is another chapter. Many, many thanks to my two betas, grainweevil and RedSkyAtNight, who give me so much good advice in putting this story together; also to all the others who have helped with advice on technical matters.**

**Thanks to all those who read, review and generally encourage. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long for this chapter; I'll try to make quicker progress now. As always, I would love to know what you think.**

Alex awoke on Boxing Day feeling pleased and relieved; the previous day had seen her relationship with Gene restored to a level she would never have expected so quickly. Then she thought of the empty day ahead of her, and felt depressed again. That was almost the worst thing about her existence here in the 1980s – really, she had no life outside of work and work-based socialising. Deprived of both during the holiday period, she was at a loose end. After trying and failing to get back to sleep, she resigned herself to the inevitable, got up, showered and breakfasted. Deciding that if her life consisted only of work she might as well get on and do some, she took out the notes she had taken at Helen's bedside yesterday and began to try and write them up into some sort of order, wishing, not for the first time, for a laptop.

She had barely started when she was interrupted by a knock at the door. Opening it, she was surprised to see Evan, a slightly anxious smile on his face, little Alex peering cautiously from behind his legs.

Alex recovered herself. "Oh, er, hi."

"Hi," replied Evan awkwardly. "We, er, we just came to say thank you for the presents. And to give you yours." He held out a small wrapped parcel.

"Oh! Well, come in." Alex stepped back and they came into the flat, Evan appearing more relaxed. The little girl stayed close to him but looked around curiously. As she passed her, Alex could see that she had the Julip pony clutched tightly in her hand.

"Please, sit down." Alex waved Evan to the sofa as she accepted the small present from him. She ripped it open to find a silk scarf, softly patterned in grey, silver and blue. "Oh! Thank you, it's beautiful." Alex's pleasure was genuine and to underline it she immediately tied the scarf around her neck, where it perfectly accented the black pullover she was wearing. She remembered her manners. "Erm, would you like a coffee?"

"Well, actually, we were just heading out for a walk in Hyde Park. Would you like to come?" Evan looked at her expectantly but, more importantly for Alex, little Alex was also watching intently for her answer, an expression in her dark eyes which might just have been hope.

"Oh, er…" _A walk_, Alex thought to herself. Low-key, friendly chat, fresh air, nothing too heavy. No need to interact with the child unless she was invited to. Yes, she could do that. "I'd love to."

"Great!" Evan's face split into a relieved grin and little Alex gave what looked like a smile. Alex hurried to find her jacket and boots and soon she was in Evan's car as they drove westwards.

In the bright winter sunlight, Hyde Park seemed like a fairy kingdom. Frost sparkled on the grass, picked out the tracery of the bare trees, and lent a magical shimmer to the old stonework of the fountains. There was no traffic and hardly any other walkers, only the muted tinkling of the falling water. The sun drew white mist from the Serpentine which seemed to hide the wider city, adding to the other-worldly feel. Alex was enchanted and drank it all in, eyes huge and shining, cheeks glowing in the cold air.

She walked side by side with Evan as little Alex ran on a little way ahead, caught up in playing with her pony. Suddenly Evan's voice brought her out of her reverie. "Thank you so much for giving her that horse, Alex – she adores it. I've never seen her so happy with anything – _never,_ let alone since…" his voice tailed off as she saw the regret enter his eyes. "Well, you know."

"Yes." Alex tried to acknowledge his unspoken feelings.

"I'm just pleased that she likes it – I had a feeling she might."

"Well, you must be a mind-reader – and the port, too! It's my favourite – how did you know?"

Alex allowed herself a secret smile. "Really? Just a lucky guess; I wasn't sure if you'd like it".

"I love it." He grinned at her. "Got a taste for it at Cambridge – well, not that particular one, obviously. Cheap stuff when I was a student, then moved onto the better ones when I could afford them."

Alex seized on the opening for neutral dialogue. "Cambridge? Which college?" _Even though I know, even though you've taken me there, shown me round… Forget that, Alex, forget it. Have a normal conversation_.

"King's - do you know it? Were you at Cambridge?"

"Oxford," she replied, and in response to his further questions she managed to find answers that did not sound odd to 1980s ears. Mentally she thanked the universities in question for remaining so stuck in the Middle Ages that relatively little modernisation had gone on between his time there and hers.

They walked on unhurriedly, in step, keeping the conversation light, both enjoying watching the little girl ahead of them. She was in her own world, absorbed with the toy pony; Alex smiled to see her 'walking' it through the grass or around the fountains, lost in her imagination, occasionally breaking off to whisper to it or clasp it tightly. The only time she looked up from it was when they entered Rotten Row and a group of real horses and riders came past, hooves making a muted thudding in the deep tan, their breath great plumes of steam in the frosty air. Little Alex gazed at them in mute adoration, eyes taking in every detail, until they rounded a corner and the avenue of trees blocked them from sight.

Eventually they returned to the car and Evan drove Alex back to her flat. She politely but firmly declined his invitation to come for lunch; the morning had been lovely, but she felt as though they had exhausted the possible topics for conversation. What was left? Families? That was a no-go area for both of them. Work? The pain it had caused her recently was less acute now that she was on speaking terms with Gene, but she still had no desire to re-hash the turmoil of the past few weeks with Evan. No, best to say goodbye now and leave it light.

They accompanied her back to her door and Evan kissed her goodbye: a chaste kiss on the cheek. As she opened her door he nudged little Alex with his knee; she stepped forward shyly, looked up at Alex and whispered, "Thank you for the pony."

Somehow it seemed easier to talk to her now. Alex crouched down to her level and looked her in the eyes, smiling. "You're very welcome," she replied, warmth in her gaze. "What have you called it?"

The child's face was clear and innocent as she gave her reply but Alex could not help giving an involuntary shudder as a chill seemed to pass over her. "Clown."

* * *

Alex suppressed the shiver as she closed the door and then leant against it, head back, deliberately calming her breathing. _It means nothing, _she told herself. _Nothing. Just a coincidence. _Walking slowly back into the living room, she realised that the last few months had been mercifully free of glimpses of the clown. Finally learning the truth about her father and what he had done had, mercifully, laid that ghost to rest. She hadn't even had many flashbacks, really, not since that one in Nottingham… _Stop. Off limits. _No, since the fateful day in October her life had been mercifully free of strange visions and voices… _No Molly, either. Nothing from my other life at all… _Sighing, she tried to put the thought from her mind. Resignation seemed to be her only option.

She spent the afternoon writing up her notes and the evening watching TV. Sunday passed in a stupor of boredom, and by Monday morning she was desperate for a change of scene. Despite the Bank Holiday she rose early and crossed the road to work. She wanted to compare the notes on the latest case to those on the earlier attacks, and there were several unrelated cases which also needed her attention.

Sitting at her desk in the deserted squad room, she worked steadily, glad of the change of scene and the work to occupy her, even though the air seemed thick and dead and the silence wrapped around her like a blanket. Immersed in the files, she was startled when, half an hour in, the door banged and six foot of black-coated life-force strode into the room, pulling off his gloves.

He was as surprised as she was and halted, eyebrows raised, but quickly recovered himself. "Got nowhere better to go, Bolly?"

_Git. _"Apparently not." She met his gaze with composure. "It would seem the same is true of you."

_Damn. _"Bollocks. Just getting ahead of the game, that's all. Come in, read the plod's report, see what's what before the rabble get back 'ere tomorrow."

"Fine." She smiled brightly. "Don't let me disturb you, then." She returned her gaze to the paperwork in front of her, but glanced up again just in time for them to catch each other's eyes in a silent, rueful acknowledgement that each had seen through the other's defences.

He said no more and crossed the room to his office. She heard him banging around, taking his coat off and arranging things, but he didn't close the door. It didn't take him long to read the report and after ten minutes or so he emerged to stand over her desk. "Fancy a trip out, Bolly? Go and have a look at the crime scene?"

The prospect of some fresh air was very appealing and moreover, she realised the value of seeing the scene for herself; no amount of reading other people's descriptions could equal it. Pushing her chair back, she replied "Sure, why not?" and pulled on her jacket and scarf.

They drove through deserted streets under a glowering, overcast sky, and parked amid the red-brown London brick of St Katharine's Dock. Bereft of its usual commercial activity, the place felt empty and desolate. It didn't take long to find the bar where Helen James had been working, but it was closed. Nevertheless they looked around the area and located the small alley where the attack had actually taken place, thanks to a helpful sketch map drawn by the plod who had taken the original notes. They poked about, but the bare bricks did not yield any clues and the whole place seemed deserted. Alex however noticed that several flats overlooked the alley and suggested that they interview the occupants in case they had seen or heard anything.

Gene pulled a face. "Plod's job, but, since we're here…" So they climbed the stairs and went from door to door, asking the inhabitants about Christmas Eve. Many of them had been out themselves, or else were out now; they could only find three or four who had been in at the relevant time and no-one had heard anything. Recalling what Helen had said about the quick manner in which her attacker had overpowered her and taped her mouth, Alex was depressed but not too surprised.

Gene's scowl deepened with each door they knocked on, until eventually they emerged and stood again in the chilly alleyway, a cold breeze now getting up and the sky threatening snow. "Well that was a waste of bloody time. I need a drink." He looked down his nose at her, considering. "What _did _you find to live on these last few days, anyway?"

She looked slightly discomfited at having her inadequacy discovered, but admitted "Toast, mostly."

"Hmph. You need some lunch, then." His expression brightened somewhat at the prospect.

"Where? Nowhere's open."

"None of _these_ poncey places are open. Doesn't mean nowhere is. C'mon," and he led the way back to the car with a spring in his step.

True to his word, he had soon found a little pub on a street corner which was open. The decor was not classy and nor were the clientele, but it was warm and cosy and it served food, of a sort. As on Christmas Day, Alex found Gene pleasant company, and the atmosphere between them was friendly, if a little reserved.

Halfway through what claimed to be a ploughman's lunch, though Alex guessed it had never been anywhere more rural than Wapping, she asked after Helen. "Is she home yet?"

"Yep. Came home yesterday."

"Why don't we go and see her, then? Can you remember the address? We can arrange for her to come into the station -"

Her good intentions were cut short by a loud groan from Gene. "How much more unnecessary plod work do you want me to do today? For Christ's sake, just phone her and arrange it later."

Not wishing to test his patience further, Alex agreed, and after lunch Gene drove them back to the station. Alex phoned Helen, who sounded much brighter, and arranged for her to come in on the Thursday morning; then concentrated on finishing off the tasks she had set herself for that day. Gene sat in his office, smoking; she was aware of him shuffling papers but got the impression that he was not really giving his attention to work. After another hour or so she stood up, stretched, and walked over to his doorway. "I'll be off then, Guv."

He raised his head to look at her. "Right you are then, Bolls." If Luigi's had been open he would have asked her to go for a drink, but the Italian was adamant about reserving public holidays to spend time with his large family. Gene sighed imperceptibly. Maybe it was just as well. At least she was talking to him again now. He didn't want to push it.

She was halfway to the door when his voice recalled her. "Oh, er, Bolly?" She turned to see him standing in the doorway to his office, leaning on the jamb.

"Yes?"

"Need to do a big briefing tomorrow morning. Bring everyone up to speed on this attack. You OK to do your bit? Talk about the profile and such-like?"

For a moment Alex was taken aback: it was such a direct contrast to his behaviour of a month ago. Realising that she had her mouth open, she hastily assented. "Yes. Yes, of course. That'll be fine."

"Good." He said no more, but watched her as she turned again and left the room.

* * *

When Alex went into CID the next morning she found the room crowded and noisy, as everyone shared the news of the latest attack. Crossing over to greet Shaz, Alex found her in full flow: "That poor girl! She was from Golden Lane, wasn't she? And her poor face all cut up and everything..."

Ray, who was listening, frowned. " 'ow come _you_ know so much about it?"

"Oh, didn't you know? My flatmates are nursing students at Barts, they'd heard about it when she was in there."

"_What?"_ exclaimed Ray, open-mouthed. "Do you mean to tell me that you've been sharing a flat wi' some student nurses all this time, and no-one told me?" He rounded on Chris. "Why didn't you tell me, you div?"

Chris shrugged, looking nonplussed. "Dunno. Why would you be interested?"

"Are you joking?" Ray was incredulous. "Don't you know there are only three certainties in life – death, taxes, and student nurses?" He made a gesture to illustrate what exactly he believed them to be certain of doing.

Shaz looked at him contemptuously. "Ray, you're disgusting."

Ray gave an unrepentant smirk and turned to Gene, who was leaning against a nearby desk, an appreciative grin on his face. "Those were the days, though, eh, Guv? When your warrant card was a VIP pass into the nurses' home – _and_ into their - "

"Yes, thank you Raymondo, that'll do." Gene had suddenly become aware that Alex was listening. He didn't want her to hear about his past philanderings; it felt like another life. He levered himself to his feet and raised his voice. "_Right_, _then_, boys and girls. As you all seem to have heard, another girl was raped on Christmas Eve, in an attack similar to the one on Karen Blake." He proceeded to give brief details of what had happened to Helen James. "It seems very likely that the man carrying out these attacks is the same sicko who raped three women in Nottingham earlier this year. The fourth supposed victim, Hazel Armstrong, would seem to have been attacked by a different man."

Gasps and murmurs greeted this announcement and were quickly stifled as Gene looked daggers at his team. No-one had missed the fact that their DCI had just made a spectacular U-turn over a theory he'd been vociferously opposing throughout the previous month. Eyes turned to Alex, bus she did not provide any gratifying response, keeping her gaze fixed attentively on Gene, who was carrying on as though nothing had happened.

"…. therefore means that some of our lines of enquiry need to be shelved –" they knew he was talking about the Slater & Co connection – "and that we need to concentrate our efforts on finding any possible information about the two local cases. DI Drake and myself have already started to work the area of the Christmas Eve attack, and the rest of you will take up where we left off. We'll also review everything we have on the Karen Blake attack, to see if there's anything we missed the first time. Before we get stuck into the nitty-gritty, though, would you like to say anything, DI Drake?"

At least she was prepared this time. "Yes, thanks, Guv." Alex got to her feet and made her way over to the whiteboard. "DCI Hunt has given you the facts of the case, and there's not much to add at the moment, from the psychological point of view. All the evidence points to this being the latest in a series of attacks, and I outlined a probable profile of the offender at our briefing last month. As you've heard, this time the attacker used his knife to slash the victim's face as well as her genital area. This indicates a worrying, but not unexpected, tendency to escalate the violence of the attack. The perpetrator is likely to find it difficult to connect to his own emotions in a normal, healthy way, and so each attack is an attempt to connect – an attempt, if you like, to feel something. For some reason, inflicting injuries on another person is important to his psyche – he gets emotional affirmation from it - " she noticed that the faces of her audience were becoming a bit blank, and modified her style somewhat " – he gets a kick out of it in some way. But each time, he gets a little bit more accustomed to seeing the injuries, the suffering, and so he needs to make them more severe in order to derive the same level of satisfaction. It's likely, therefore, that any future attacks will be at least as violent as the latest one, if not more so."

She paused; the team appeared to be listening, if slightly disgusted at what she had just said. "You'll remember that after the first attack, the rapist was heard to say the words "Never again,", as though promising himself that he would not give in to his urges again. He said the same words after cutting Helen James' face in the latest attack. It appears that each time he oversteps his own boundaries he is disgusted with himself and vows not to repeat the act – but as we have seen, his desires overcome his willpower."

Pausing again, Alex looked around to take stock of her audience. They seemed to be concentrating on what she was saying. She took a sidelong glance at Gene; he was always hard to read, but his expression showed no disapproval or cynicism. Taking a deep breath, she continued: "At this stage of the investigation, though, I think it would be useful to step back a little, take a view of the crimes as a whole. We're looking at probably five crimes by the same man here" – she momentarily caught Gene's eye in mute thanks for publicly affirming her on that point – "and although we've looked at the similarities of the actual attacks, I think we might gain something by trying to see any patterns, anything that could tell us about his lifestyle or his character." She looked questioningly at Gene, who was leaning against the outer wall of his office. "That all right with you, Guv?"

Gene shrugged and made a magnanimous gesture. "Fire away, Bolly."

Their obvious politeness did not go unnoticed: Alex heard Ray mutter "Bloody hell, what is this? A royal garden party?" but she ignored him, and beamed at the room in general.

"Right then, well, I think we need to push the envelope here – really think outside the box -"

Ray frowned. "You what?"

Alex was warming to her subject now. "I mean, we need a brainstorming session -"

"Could we possibly have it in English, please, Einstein?" Gene was smiling; it was a gentle prod, not a put-down.

Realising that she was spouting noughties jargon, Alex took a deep breath and turned to the whiteboard. "OK, let's see what we have here. Three rapes last spring, occurring at a frequency of about once every four weeks. Then nothing – nothing, from April onwards, now that we're discounting Hazel Armstrong, until the end of October, then two months to another attack. That's six whole months with no activity. Now obviously we know that the perpetrator moved location during that time, but what else did he do? It's possible that he simply managed to control his urges during that time – as we've seen, he does seem to have an inner conflict going on – but it's unlikely. A couple of months I could buy, but six? I doubt it. Not without some other contributory factor. So, any ideas?"

The team surveyed Alex and the whiteboard with expressions ranging from thought to bewilderment. Ray looked patronising. "Do you even 'ave to ask? He'll have been in the nick."

There was a murmur of agreement from around the room, and Gene turned to address them. "Highly likely, Raymondo, but we've checked anyone known to have previous for sexual violence, and there's no-one likely who was in on a short sentence at that point. So, as Inspector Drake says, any more ideas?"

The team really appeared to be giving the matter some thought. After a moment, Poirot raised a tentative hand. " 'ow about if 'e was out of the country? Like, workin' abroad or something… there's a lot of blokes doing that, at the moment. Workin' on building sites and stuff, 'cos there's no work 'ere."

"Good suggestion, Poirot." Alex was determinedly affirmative. "Can we ask some questions around building sites in our area, find out if anyone's arrived recently, particularly if they've recently been abroad?"

Something of a groan went up, and Ray rolled his eyes. "There'll be bloody 'undreds…"

"Yes, Ray, I know there'll be a lot, such is the transient nature of building work, but can we do it, please? I'll get onto Nottingham police to do the same from their end – look for someone who was working in the area until May. Now though – keep going. We need to throw up some ideas – any ideas. More reasons why there are no recorded attacks for six months. Anyone?"

"Well it's obvious, innit? 'E got a girlfriend. Didn't have to go lookin' for it." A rather supercilious voice came from the back of the room, and all eyes turned to see the lanky form of DC Crowe, before returning to Alex to see how she would take this suggestion.

Alex seethed inwardly, but retained her composure. "There's a great deal more significance to these crimes than the mere sating of sexual desire, so it's too simplistic to talk about 'looking for it'," she replied. "But admittedly, there is a possibility that he was in a relationship for a period of time, and that caused him to modify his behaviour. Unfortunately, it doesn't help us much in narrowing down a possible suspect. Anyone else?"

After a moment Chris, who had been staring at the whiteboard with an expression of deep concentration on his face, ventured, "He could be in the Army. They get sent all over the place – Germany, Cyprus, Belize..."

Ray looked thoughtful. "He could, too." He nodded towards the whiteboard. "First attack was in Chilwell, right? Big ordnance depot at Chilwell. I did some of me National Service there."

"Ordnance? Of course, I forgot you'd been a blanket-stacker, Ray." Gene's tone was amused.

"Very funny, Guv." Ray pulled a face. Chris, intrigued, piped up, "What did you do there, Ray?"

"I was a storeman."

Gene laughed. "Like I said, a blanket-stacker."

"Sod off." Ray did not sound perturbed; 'water off a duck's back' was the phrase that sprang to Alex's mind.

Chris's curiosity had been roused. "What about you, Guv? Who were you with?"

"I, Christopher, was in the RASC. Learned to drive."

"RASC?" Chris looked puzzled. "What's that stand for?"

It was Ray's turn to retaliate. "'Run Away, Someone's Coming'," he smirked.

Gene grinned. "Piss off, Ray. Royal Army Service Corps, Christopher. That was in those days – it's called something else now..."

Alex heaved a sigh. "_When _Dad's Army have quite finished reminiscing, could I direct your attention back to the matter in hand?"

"Absolutely." Gene felt a twinge of regret at showing his age again. How long was it since they'd abolished National Service? _Too bloody long_. His face returned to a deadpan expression as he asked "So, Bols – army connection?"

"Yes." Gene already knew the answer to this, but Alex realised that the rest of the team needed to hear it. She stood up straight and addressed them again. "Nottingham police have explored this avenue already, because of the Chilwell connection which Ray points out." She nodded towards the sergeant, who looked smug. "They conducted a few interviews on the base after the first attack, and checked out everyone who is known to have been off site on the evening in question. After that, though, the focus moved away from that area… it's possible they may have missed something. I'll have another look at those particular files, and speak to DI Lambert again. It's worth following up – good suggestion, Chris. Any more ideas?"

By this time the team seemed to have run out of inspiration, so after a few minutes Gene wound the briefing up and dispatched members of the team to their various tasks. Alex spent the rest of the day reviewing the Karen Blake files, and also the information which had been gathered from Chilwell army base. In the afternoon she phoned Andrew Lambert, who sounded, as always, delighted to hear from her. He promised to look again at the notes from the base and re-interview people if necessary. Alex also informed him that Gene seemed to have come round to her view about the Hazel Armstrong case "… so it looks as though you're on your own, there, Andrew, I'm afraid. An isolated rape, with nothing to suggest that the offender has moved away. I think you need to focus again on the immediate area – in all probability, the university campus itself."

She heard Lambert sigh at the other end of the phone. "Yes, you're right. I'll get on to it. There's so much we didn't really follow up on before, because we were making assumptions…"

Alex heard the tiredness in his voice and felt a pang of sympathy. "Sorry to dump all this on you. Look, if there's anything I can do to help, any advice, just give me a call. I've done profiling on similar cases before. I might be able to suggest something."

"Thanks, Alex, I really appreciate it."

Alex smiled in response before saying goodbye and ringing off.

The morning's briefing had made it clear to the team that their DI and DCI were no longer at each other's throats, and indeed seemed to be getting on quite amicably. They attributed this to the fact that Gene seemed to have come round to Alex's way of thinking over Hazel Armstrong, and most of them thought no more about it, but the happier, more relaxed atmosphere was welcomed by all. Alex herself felt much better, and readily accepted Shaz's invitation to pop down to Luigi's for a quick drink after work with the rest of the team. She sipped a glass of wine and enjoyed listening to Shaz describing the details of hers and Chris's Christmas, while remaining purposefully vague about her own. She mentioned going to Barts to talk to Helen James on Christmas Day, but had a sense that her visit to Gene's flat was a private matter, between him and her, so said nothing about it.

As they were chatting, Luigi extricated himself from behind the bar and came towards them, arms oustretched. "Ah, the _bellissima signorina_… _two bellissima signorinas!_" he corrected himself as he saw Shaz. He favoured both of them with a kiss on both cheeks before asking, with open arms "You come here tomorrow night, yes? For the party? We see in the _Nuovo Anno_? Much celebration…"

Shaz accepted enthusiastically while Alex was still thinking of a reply, but at that moment Gene materialised behind her and planted a hand firmly on her back. "Course she will, Luigi. Wouldn't miss it for the world, would you, Bolly? CID New Year's Eve party: place to be. That goes for _all of you_" – he raised his voice to address the group – "in here, tomorrow night, buying me drinks. Bring your friends, bring your other halves with you if you have to, but only if they know how to get pissed. Luigi here has imported a new vintage, fresh from the vinegar stills of Modena, so no excuses, all right?" There were grins and 'Yes, Guv's from the team and a pained expression from Luigi. Gene finished and turned back towards Alex, hoping to buy her a drink, but the thought of another CID party, so soon after the ill-fated Christmas debacle, suddenly made her want to be alone. Quickly she bade Shaz good-night and made her escape before he could speak to her.

* * *

On Thursday morning Alex had not been at work for long when Gene asked her into his office. Surprised and a little apprehensive, she followed him inside. He turned to face her.

"Helen James is coming in this morning, ten-thirty, yes?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I was, er, just thinking – maybe you want to interview her on your own? Like with the women in Nottingham? You, er, get more out of them that way."

Startled, Alex wondered just how many more reversals of policy Gene was going to execute now that he was speaking to her again. He had been so bitterly opposed to what she had done in Nottingham. She considered her answer carefully.

"Thanks, but those women had already been through a lengthy statement and interview process; Helen hasn't. I'd rather that you were there too, at least to begin with – there might well be something that you pick up on. Maybe though, if she's up to it, I could have some time alone with her at the end? Just to see if I can draw out her recollections at all."

"Good idea, Bolly." He seemed pleased with this compromise and looked almost cheerful as she left the office. Back at her desk she thought over the conversation again and could not hide a smile of amusement. It seemed ridiculous that after all the arguments, they were now bending over backwards to accommodate each other's preferred methods. How long could they go on treading on eggshells like this? Another row seemed inevitable at some point. Nevertheless, she would try not to go looking for it.

Meeting Helen in the station entrance, Alex thought she looked a lot better than when they had seen her on Christmas Day. Her wounds were healing: they looked less livid and swollen, although the stitches still disfigured her face and made smiling difficult. "Can't wait to get them out," she confessed, rubbing at them ruefully, "but the doctors said ten days... they're just itchy now, it's so annoying!" More importantly though, a few days of care from her mum and dad and the devoted Pete had done a lot to restore a positive outlook.

The smile vanished and the tears flowed as they slowly went over the crime with her again, but she bravely ploughed on until the end. Then, as promised, Alex was left alone with her, and tried some simple relaxation and recollection techniques to try to coax out any more information. Sadly though, both Alex and Gene had to admit that they had learnt little, if anything, new from her account.

Alex accompanied Helen back downstairs. As they neared the entrance, the young woman leant towards her and murmured, "You were right, you know. About Pete. Thank you."

Alex was moved, but knew that no thanks were due to her. She squeezed the younger woman's hand. "It's nothing," she replied. "He's a good man, that's all. You're very lucky."

Helen gave her a big, slightly painful smile. "I know."

* * *

Alex stood in her bedroom, wondering what to wear to the party. She still felt a bit ambivalent about going: she cringed with embarrassment as she remembered her drunken fumblings and even more drunken row with Gene after the Christmas party, and had no wish to do something equally foolish. Still, her relationships with Gene and the rest of the team felt so much better now. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. _Just go easy on the wine, Alex, and you'll be fine. What to wear, though? _It didn't feel right to wear work clothes but on the other hand, she didn't really have much else. In the end she settled on a soft grey blouse, teamed with a black pencil skirt and the silk scarf Evan had given her. After dressing and doing her hair and make-up, she felt distinctly better. _Quite looking foward to it, in fact. _She made her way downstairs to the bar, where music and raucous conversation made it clear that the party was already in full swing.

At first she could barely make out the CID crowd amongst the throng, but then Shaz waved at her and she made her way over to accept a glass of wine from Chris and meet Shaz's two flatmates, the nurses from Barts. They were bright young women, very like Shaz, and she enjoyed chatting to them. Luigi had hired in extra bar staff in the shape of his wife's nephews; the wine was flowing and in spite of her earlier resolve, Alex was several glasses down before she realised it. When Ray appeared and skilfully manoeuvred her to one side so that he could try his charm on the nurses, Alex recognised a past master at work and left him to it. She moved over to talk to Poirot, who was full of stories about CID in the old days, before Gene and the others from Manchester had arrived. He was pleasant enough, if a little tedious, but before he had really got into his stride he was distracted, and Alex, visiting the bar for a refill, suddenly found herself face to face with Gene.

"Evening, Bolly." He swiftly refilled her glass and his own. "Enjoying yerself?"

"Yes. Yes, I am, actually." The atmosphere was good; much better throughout the team, now that she and Gene were being civil again, and it had spilled over into the party. It felt like it had done months ago, the whole team celebrating together. She could almost forget about the nightmare in between. The wine was helping too, of course.

"Good." Gene held up his glass to hers and they clinked together, cementing the reconciliation. He thought about all the times he'd done it before. _You and me, Bolly. Unbreakable. _For a time he'd thought they were irreparable, but now he had hope again. How close would she let him get, though?

Ray's voice drifted over; he was running through his joke repertoire for the benefit of the nurses. "So then she says, 'No, but it keeps the flies off the watermelon'!"

The eye-rolling response made it clear that the young women were not as impressed as they might have been. Gene and Alex's eyes met in silent amusement at Ray's lack of progress, and soon they were relaxed, talking about the team, about Luigi, about anything. It felt so good; more wine flowed, and the barriers dropped further. Eventually Alex, recovering herself from giggling at one of his comments, leaned towards him and confided, "Gene. I'm so glad we're friends again."

_Friends. _The word hit him like a lump of ice, shattering and sending cold shards all over him. His face betrayed nothing beyond a miniscule tightening around the eyes, and he was able to reply, "Yeah. Me too," while barely missing a beat, but inside his hopes had just plummeted. _Friends. Is that all she wants? _A week ago the comment might have cheered him, but as soon as their friendship had returned he realised that it wasn't enough. He would always want more.

His thoughts were dragged back to the present as one of the nurses finally lost patience and gave Ray a resounding slap across the face. There was momentary silence, followed by guffaws of laughter from the rest of the team, and a red-faced Ray held his head high and made his way over to the bar to drown his sorrows.

When Alex looked around again, Gene had moved away. She frowned, puzzled and disappointed, but instead went over to talk to Viv and his beautiful wife Angela, who had been beaming all night at being able to enjoy a rare night out with her husband. Alex loved talking to the pair of them, but as Angela spoke with motherly affection and pride about her four children, she was suddenly reminded of her own plight. Molly was somewhere, way out of reach, missing her, perhaps preparing to see in a new year without her. Suddenly she felt lonely in the crowd, surrounded by revellers who could never understand. She reached for her drink to take the pain away, but then realised just how much she'd had already. It didn't really help, anyway; it might even make her feel worse. Or do something stupid. Better just to leave, she thought. As soon as she politely could, she excused herself from Viv and Angela, and quietly slipped away upstairs, to her flat. She put herself to bed and tried to sleep, to escape the ache which had appeared again.

No-one saw her leave, but at half past eleven Gene realised that he could not find her anywhere in the bar. And though he stayed on and joined in with everything that was required: the drinking, the joking, the banter; though he played his part in the loud countdown to midnight and the endless round of back-slapping and hand-shaking that followed Big Ben's chimes on the radio; though he crossed his hands and sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with the rest of them, while the staff poured sparkling wine over the fountain of glasses on the bar and Luigi buried his head in his hands at the waste; all the while, it felt as though there was a hole within him, an absence that was made all the more painful by its unexpectedness. He had been looking forward to seeing in the New Year with her, celebrating, seeing the laughter in her eyes, maybe even sneaking a kiss... _You stupid twat_, he castigated himself, bitterly. _She doesn't want that. Not now, not ever. You had one chance and you blew it. She doesn't want you as a lover any more. She just wants to be friends._


	11. Revelations

**Huge thanks as always to my faithful beta RedSkyAtNight, for correcting my punctuation and contributing many valuable comments. Also special thanks are due for this chapter to Tabby Cat, who helped me develop the ideas about Molly, and also advised on the geography of Brighton!**

**I'm very grateful to all who read, especially if you review - I love feedback! Thanks to all who are still with me. **

Alex slept late on New Year's Day and woke up with a headache, but coffee and paracetamol cleared it, leaving her to contemplate the prospect of another long weekend with nothing to do. Feeling restless in the flat, she wrapped up and went out for a walk, even though the sky was overcast and the day not particularly inviting. At first she just walked, not really noticing where she was going, but when she came to Tower Bridge and looked southward across the river, an idea came to her. Never in her 1980s existence had she visited Southwark Park, the area where she lived with Molly in 2008. Now she wondered why not? Probably because she knew her little neo-Georgian townhouse had been built in the mid-90s and would be non-existent now: perhaps a Victorian terrace waiting for demolition, perhaps a flattened wasteland. Probably a deeper reason too, she grudgingly admitted to herself; up till now, the thought of it had been too painful. Now however, she had a strange desire to go there and see for herself, so she squared her shoulders and set off across the bridge.

It was a longish walk and her boots were not ideal for it, but as she went further along Jamaica Road the surroundings began to look familiar, even with the time difference, and she found herself smiling as she recognised more and more landmarks. The park itself was achingly the same and she walked through it wide-eyed, a lump in her throat as she recognised the swings where Molly had played, the trees she had climbed, the steps where she had fallen over and skinned her knee. It was an odd feeling combining both pleasure and pain and she did not hurry, but let her feet take her, the sensations washing over her as she drew closer and closer to the place she had called home.

Her suspicions had been right: the area which would become the street where she lived consisted of tatty red-brick Victorian houses, some still occupied but many boarded up and vandalised. On a good day it would have been unwelcoming; today, under a grey winter sky and with a chill breeze blowing, it was desolate. Alex did not hang around for long, but headed further north and east, and before long she was entering the churchyard of St Mary's church.

There had always been a tension between her left-wing liberal upbringing and her Catholic schooling, and in adult life she had certainly not been a regular churchgoer. In spite of her analytical approach to most of life, though, there had been something in her childhood experience, enough of a taste of the mystery and wonder of worship, that she had not wanted to give it up completely. So she had come here, from time to time, with Molly: at Christmas, sometimes at Easter, or occasionally just when she felt like it. Not knowing anyone at first, still she had found the liturgy and the music a comfort; and later, in the throes of her painful divorce, the incumbent priest had proved surprisingly sympathetic and supportive. Now as she approached it, the square Georgian brick building called to her as it always had, a refuge, a welcoming place.

She tried the door and was glad to find it open; quietly she slipped inside, through the porch and into the body of the church. She noticed a couple of people sitting in the front pew, but apart from that it was empty. Unobtrusively she sat down in a pew near the back.

It was not warm in the church, but yet warmer than being outside in the chilly breeze. In here the air felt very still, dry and dusty, but not stifling. Instead, there was an all-pervading sense of calm. Alex looked around her, taking in the remembered high windows, the memorial plaques on the walls. As she gazed towards the crucifix at the front of the church, something welled up inside her. Not specific or defined enough to be called a prayer, it was perhaps a longing, or simply a questioning. _What am I doing here? _Not just, here in the 1980s, but more specifically, why had her inclination brought her here today, to the surroundings she knew and frequented in 2008? Was there any meaning, any purpose in it? Could she, possibly, learn anything about her situation – which reality was truly hers? It seemed unlikely, impossible even, that she would find any answers; and yet she longed to know.

She sat there for a while, perhaps ten minutes, letting all the questions come, feeling powerless to find an answer. Just as she was beginning to think about leaving, she noticed that the two people at the front had got up and were walking back down the aisle towards her, talking quietly. With a jolt that hit the pit of her stomach, she realised that it was Molly and Evan: not Evan as she had seen him recently, but 2008 Evan, in his late fifties, hair and beard streaked with grey. Even as she called out incoherently and wondered why they did not seem to see her, she noticed that both had red-rimmed eyes, as though they had been crying. A moment later she managed to form a word and cried out "Molly!", but neither Molly nor Evan gave the slightest sign of having heard. As they walked past her she could hear their conversation:

"That was a lovely service for Mum, wasn't it?"

"I'm glad you think so, Scrap. It was a good way to say goodbye, eh?"

"Yes." Molly was her usual serious self; Alex recognised her expression so well. "I think Mum would have liked it."

"Yeah." Evan paused, looking at Molly, then put an arm round her shoulders and carried on walking. "Mum's at peace now, you know, Scrap. Nothing can hurt her, ever again."

They were past her now and heading out through the porch: with a start, Alex came back to herself and rushed after them, calling out "Wait!", but as they walked away from her down the churchyard path, still unheeding, the most amazing thing happened. They did not walk away or turn a corner, out of sight: they simply faded, there in front of her eyes. For a second they were there but transparent, and then they had gone completely, and there was no-one but herself in the cold graveyard.

Alex stood dazed, barely believing what she had just heard. A service? _Goodbye? _Could it be true? That she was well and truly dead in 2008, that Molly and Evan were moving on, finding a life after her? She felt the shock as a physical force and stood gasping for breath, as though someone had emptied a bucket of cold water over her. And yet – _and yet – _she was still alive, still here in this reality. The cold stones beneath her feet were as solid, as tangible as ever; she could still feel the breeze on her face, hear the distant sounds of birds and cars. The world – _this_ world – seemed to be going on as normal.

After a few moments she collected herself enough to leave the churchyard and begin the long walk home. She did not notice the distance; she barely noticed her surroundings, so absorbed was she in trying to process and assimilate what had just happened. Gradually, incredulously, it dawned on her that her almost-prayer had been answered. She had received, apparently, a clear message of her situation. She was dead, dead and buried, in her original existence. This 1980s world which she had at first taken to be a construct but increasingly suspected to be real, was now her only actuality.

It might be a clear answer but it was a harsh one, desperately hard to accept. Conflicting emotions and thoughts whirled in her mind as she tried to take it in. She reached her flat as the afternoon was starting to grow dark and let herself in, but could not settle to anything; she picked at food, flicked the TV channels, but the only thing in her mind was what she had seen today and the enormity of what it meant. Eventually she went to bed but sleep evaded her: tossing and turning, she only managed to doze in fitful interludes. Around five in the morning, she reached a decision. She could not stand the thought of chewing things over in this flat all weekend: she needed an escape, and she had always found it easiest to think when by the sea. Treasured, sun-lit memories of holidays, during her own childhood and later with Molly, made her choice of destination easy. She was going to Brighton.

* * *

The immediate decision made, she felt marginally better and managed to snatch a couple of hours of deeper sleep before waking and packing a small bag. She took the first suitable train and by mid-morning was emerging from Brighton station.

She walked along Queen Street to the front and checked into the Grand Hotel, trying to banish from her mind the TV images of shocked people spilling out of it after the IRA bombing in 1984. Before that, as a small child, she had always imagined staying there instead of the guesthouse chosen by her parents; that was why she chose it now. After leaving her things in her room she headed straight out again to walk along the beach. Here, with the wind beating incessantly against her face and the constant roar of the sea crashing against the pebbles, she could think straight. Seagulls wheeled and screamed above her, but the beach was virtually empty of people: just a very few hardy dog-walkers, wrapped up against the weather. Relishing the combination of solitude and the wild elements, she walked for miles, allowing the natural forces around her to do their work of ordering her thoughts.

Dead. Dead in 2008. The thought occurred to her that, rather than a message from her other life, the whole appearance of Molly and Evan and what they had said might be just another construct from her subconscious – but why? Why would it do that? It did not fit with any theories of the mind that she knew. No, the more she thought about it, the more she felt the truth of what had happened. Back in the summer, when she had seen Molly, there had been a physicality to her appearances – sometimes Alex had felt her, handed her things – which suggested that they were sharing a common reality, even though she might be unconscious in it. Then, after the bomb in October, there had been nothing – weeks and weeks of no appearance at all. Now she saw this as a sign that she had died then, in her 2008 reality; that she was irretrievably, bodily removed from it. This latest appearance in which Molly and Evan had seemed real and then just faded, seemed of a different type: not an attempt to reach her on their behalf, the opposite in fact. Rather, it seemed a leaking through the dimensions from that other reality, of which they were unaware; some divine providence allowing her a glimpse of what was going on there, so that she could fully realise her situation here. Gradually as she walked the pieces fell into place until they made a sort of sense that she felt almost able to accept.

Eventually, tatty 1930s bungalows informed her that she had reached the suburbs of the town, and she turned round, realising as she did so that metaphorically, it was just what she could no longer do. _No going back. I'm here now, for good or ill… _This world, far from being a construct, had its own independent existence, and it was here she must make her life. As she walked back, she mulled over this fact and its implications, gradually realising how far-reaching they were. Here for perhaps scores more years, able to carve out her future in whatever direction she wanted – but what did she want? Her job, certainly – it was something she had always loved and had no desire to change, even though in the 1980s it would mean fighting all over again many of those battles which women had fought before her, to gain equality and recognition. People too – the motley crew which made up Fenchurch East CID had, somewhat to her amazement, over the past few months become, for the most part, friends for whom she felt warm affection.

Which brought her inescapably to the thought she had been leaving till last, unsure what to do with it. _Gene. _Did her future include Gene Hunt? And if so, in what capacity? Could they, possibly, have a future together? When she arrived here she would have thought it laughable, but gradually, as she had worked with him, talked with him, learnt more about him, the respect had grown. More than respect. Liking. Attraction. And deeper than any of those, reliance. Her safe place, her rock. At no time had she felt that more strongly than when they had unexpectedly fallen into bed, and he had chased her horrors away with his warmth, his life-force. It wasn't just that he'd been a much better lover than she could ever have imagined, though even now a squirming thrill ran through her stomach as she remembered the touch of his mouth against her skin. No, there was more: she recalled that the morning afterwards she had felt light, energised, more positive than she had done for weeks before. It defied logic, but it had been the best she had ever felt in this world and she wanted more of it. She recalled something Ray had said to her when she first arrived here: "If you're smart, you'll learn that being where the Guv is, is the right place to be." Well, it had certainly felt right, but quickly it had all gone so wrong. Fallen apart. The pain of those weeks when they had been at loggerheads was something she did not want to repeat. Recently they had been starting to rebuild things, inching slowly closer together… she did not know how close they could get, whether that glorious, life-affirming intimacy could ever be repeated, but as she looked around and found that she had returned once more to the centre of Brighton, she resolved to try.

Realising that her stomach was grumbling, she headed into the town a little way and found a small, shabby-genteel tea-room where she had a coffee and a scone. It was strange, but now that she had finally decided that this world was real, its physical sensations seemed magnified. The way the wind had buffeted her, the sound of the waves, the pebbles under her feet, had all felt more real than ever before. Now in the tea-room, even the scone seemed to taste better than food had in a long time. Well, since her Christmas lunch with Gene, at least.

Relishing this new-found sensual pleasure that seemed to be all around her, she returned to the hotel and treated herself to a long hot bath. _A bath! _How often had she wished that Luigi's flat possessed such a luxury? Sinking back into lavender-scented bubbles, she abandoned her conscious mind and let her body enjoy every sensation.

Eventually, relaxed and warmed, she dressed and went down for dinner. The hotel had once been the epitome of Victorian splendour, and although it was now faded and in need of some loving care, it still retained an elegance and charm that she appreciated. In keeping with her earlier experience, her newly-heightened senses found the food delicious and she relished every mouthful. Then she retired to bed, where the combination of her restlessness the previous night, the sea air and the good meal soon sent her into deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day the pleasures still persisted: she enjoyed her hotel breakfast and thought wistfully of the one she had eaten in Nottingham, with Gene. Outside, the January sun had fought its way through the clouds and the morning was bright, if not warm. Wrapped up again in coat and woolly scarf, Alex walked the other way along the beach, this time taking the chance to look around and appreciate her surroundings.

An hour later, returning to the central stretch of sea-front, she climbed up onto the promenade, just by the entrance to the pier. As she passed it two girls crossed in front of her; at first she did not register them, but then realised with a start that it was Molly and her best friend Sophie. A strangled shout of "Molls!" escaped her, but she already knew it was pointless: she did not expect them to hear. The pair went onto the pier arm in arm, giggling, then one gave a shout of "Race you to the end!" and they took off, running and shrieking. Alex watched them go, but before they had gone twenty yards they simply faded into nothingness, as Molly and Evan had done in the churchyard. Biting her lip, Alex realised with a pang of certainty that this was how it was going to be from now on.

In the afternoon she took the train back to London, still thinking over the events of the last few days. Although she now realised and accepted her true situation, it was painful to see Molly and not be able to reach her. It was, she realised, a pain she must learn to live with; but she comforted herself with the thought that, whatever was going on in that far away world which was no longer hers, today Molly had looked happy.

* * *

Alex arrived in CID on Monday morning to find a highly-charged atmosphere, with little groups of people standing around talking in undertones. Barely had she sat down at her desk when Gene's office door crashed open and he strode through with a face like thunder, banged through the double doors and on down the corridor.

The source of the problem did not remain a mystery for long. Alex crossed to Ray's desk to ask what was happening, and found him, Poirot and a couple of others clustered around a copy of that morning's _Daily Mail. _The headline screamed 'SCANDAL OF SEX MONSTER WALKING LONDON'S STREETS' and a quick scan of the article underneath discovered commentary along the lines of 'Baffled police are no nearer to catching this beast than two months ago when he first struck in London', and 'Is this what we pay our taxes for? Police are idle and incompetent while terrified women fear to venture out."

Ray jerked his head towards the offending article. "The _Standard_ ran a piece on the Christmas Eve attack last week, pretty matter-of-fact, not worked up," he commented. "Some bastard at the _Mail_'s picked it up and run with it, though, and this is what we get. Guv went spare." He glanced at the door whence Gene had departed. "Bet that were the Super and everyone upstairs, calling 'im up to give an account of 'isself. That'll not improve 'is temper, listening to them wankers."

Alex agreed and returned to her desk, but soon became aware that negative publicity was not the only cause of tension in CID that morning. Shaz was sitting at her desk with red-rimmed eyes and a stony expression, while Chris, who for some reason seemed extremely reluctant to sit down, kept flitting around the office, all the while eyeing Shaz like a nervous moth fearing to get too close to a flame. Eventually, as Alex watched covertly, he approached her and tentatively essayed "Shaz…", but she rounded on him with a fierce "Don't talk to me, Chris!" and turned her head away. Chris flinched and retreated like a kicked puppy, but still did not return to his seat; instead, he made a show of studying some items on the noticeboard. Glancing from him to the others, Alex noticed several knowing looks and Ray sniggering into his moustache.

While Alex was still puzzling over this, the phone rang and she answered. It was Joe Shepherd, the Met's press officer, whom she knew from previous investigations. She got on with him well: truth to tell, it was a relief to her to work with an old-school press officer who had served ten years as a reporter on the _Hackney Gazette _and knew what he was talking about, rather than the sharp-suited media-studies types whom she had tended to encounter in the twenty-first century. Joe, for his part, sounded relieved to have got through to her rather than certain other members of the department. "Alex, I've got all the world's press and his wife wanting a statement about the rape investigation, and the best I can get from DCI Hunt is 'Tell them to piss off." Look, I can only put something together if someone tells me what the hell's going on."

Alex smiled in wry sympathy. "Well, of course DCI Hunt will have to agree whatever goes out, but… tell you what Joe, leave it with me. I'll jot a few things down and run them past him, then get back to you. I'm sure you can turn it into something fit for publication."

"Alex, you're a star. Soon as you like, I can't hold 'em off much longer."

Alex began to scribble a few bullet points, but kept an eye on Shaz, and as soon as she could, seized the opportunity to follow her to the privacy of the Ladies, and ask her what was the matter.

Shaz took a deep, shuddery breath before launching upon an explanation. "It was Thursday night, Ma'am – New Year's Eve, after you'd left. You saw my friend Rachel give Ray a slap round the face?"

"Yes." Alex could not suppress a smile at the memory, and was pleased to see a tiny hint of an answering one from Shaz.

"Well, I think 'e was pissed off because he hadn't pulled, so he decided to take a bunch of blokes to go to a club instead, and get really hammered after Luigi's closed. I think they went to Soho. And he persuaded Chris to go, so we had a row – me and Chris – because he was going off with Ray instead of stayin' with me" – Shaz's halting explanation was punctuated by sniffs – "so I didn't talk to Chris all weekend because I was cross with him. So then I came in this mornin', and Ray kept smirking and dropping hints about how pissed Chris had got on Thursday night, and how he'd been a naughty boy and done something silly. And I'm _so angry with him_!" Shaz choked out rage and tears in equal measures. "Stupid, spineless plonker, always doin' what Ray tells him – and if 'e's gone with a prostitute I'll never forgive him!" she finished with a wail.

Alex doled out tissues and sympathy and made quite sure, with a few more questions, that Shaz did not know any details of Chris's supposed misdemeanour, but was assuming the worst and refusing to let him explain. When Shaz was feeling a bit better, she sent her off to an errand in the file room and returned to the office, hoping to speak to Chris and sort matters out.

Before she could do so, however, Gene returned, once more crashing through the double doors and pausing only to bark "Tea!" before retreating to his office. Alex, recognising that Shaz was absent and that she needed to speak to Gene anyway, went into the kitchen. She made Gene's tea, carefully stirring two teaspoonsful of sugar into it, and took it in to him.

She found him staring out of the window of his office, smoking a cigarette. He turned when she entered and took the proffered mug with a grunt of thanks, sitting down at his desk.

Alex wondered how to convey sympathy without being patronising. She settled for a simple question. "Was that the Super?"

"Yes. And the rest of 'em." Sudden frustration made him rise to his feet again and pace restlessly round the room. "I wouldn't _mind_," he spat, "if they'd been like this from the beginning, if they really wanted to catch this bastard for the sake of it. As it is, they've said nothing for weeks, then suddenly when the press get hold of it and start jumping up and down and screaming like deranged monkeys, it becomes important. _Now _they're down on us like a ton of bricks, demanding we pull all the stops out, as if we weren't before! They care more about what a few poxy hacks say than about actual policing." He took a long drag on his cigarette and then exhaled slowly, blowing smoke out through his lips, trying to calm himself.

"I know." Alex could feel his frustration, his passionate motivation for what he did. The injustice of what was going on angered her too, except that she was sadly more used than he was to swingeing press attacks on the police. She wondered what Gene would make of the twenty-first century, where his superiors' primary concerns would be not only public image, but also meeting of government targets. She thought it was a good job that he would never have to deal with it.

"I had Joe Shepherd on the phone," she began, but was interrupted.

"God, so did I. Pain in the arse."

"Come on, Guv, it's hardly his fault… he needs to issue a statement. Shall I give him a few pointers so he can draft something for you to have a look at?"

Gene looked slightly less thunderous. "If you would." He blew smoke again, then straightened his shoulders. "Can't let the bastards get to us. Time to rally the troops."

So saying, he strode past her into the main office and raised his voice. "Right, you lot! Let's give the gentlemen of the press something to think about…" Alex smiled to herself as she listened to the familiar phrases of a Gene Hunt pep talk, or, as it was perceived by most of CID, a kick up the arse. She hoped that one of other of their tenuous lines of enquiry would turn up something soon, for all their sakes.

Soon Joes's statement was drafted and approved by Gene, thus disposing of their most urgent problem. The atmosphere in CID had improved as their Guv's mood became more positive, but Alex was still worried about Shaz, and Chris now seemed to have disappeared too, possibly in search of her. Deciding to take another line of enquiry, Alex cornered Ray by the photocopier and asked him "What did Chris do on New Year's Eve?"

Ray sniggered. "Oh, that. Stupid bugger got a tattoo, didn't 'e? On 'is arse. That's why he won't sit down – it's still sore. He reckons it might be infected."

"A tattoo?" Alex's eyes widened. "He didn't do anything else, though? Anything worse?"

Ray snorted. "'E were so smashed 'e could barely stand upright, let alone do owt else. No, he got the tattoo and then we just took him home and left him to sleep it off."

Alex frowned, thinking it through, and said, "OK – thanks Ray," rather absently. It was only later that she realised that the tattoo could still be part of the problem. Perhaps Chris had had the name of another woman tattooed on his bum? Yes, that must be it. That must be why Ray was so amused and was stirring things so avidly. It was one of his least attractive attributes that he always seized the opportunity to make trouble between Chris and Shaz. Alex's heart sank. How was Chris going to get out of this one? She would do all she could to sort it out, but things were not looking good for him.

Alex's opportunity arrived quite soon: when Chris reappeared he muttered "Ma'am, could I have a word?" and practically propelled her into the kitchen. There he stood, looking miserably at the floor, before blurting "Can you help me, Ma'am? It's Shaz – I just want to explain – but we had a row on Thursday night and she won't let me talk to her! And now she's locked herself in the file room – can you persuade her to talk to me? Please?" He turned hopeful, puppy-dog eyes on her.

Feeling like an ancient agony aunt, Alex replied "Yeah – OK, I'll try. But, erm, Chris, Ray told me about the tattoo - is it a problem? I mean, how will you explain to her?"

Chris gazed at the floor again. "Yeah, well, it's pretty bad, but I think she'll be all right about it."

"You do?" Alex could not keep the scepticism out of her voice

Chris looked more doubtful. "Well, I hope so... I mean, it shouldn't really matter to her, should it?"

"Shouldn't matter?" repeated Alex faintly, wondering how Chris could possibly think that another woman's name tattooed on his posterior would not matter to his girlfriend.

"Well, no, not really," replied Chris, sounding puzzled. He shifted uncomfortably. "It's just – so embarrassing – you won't tell any of the lads, will you, Ma'am?" I mean" – his voice dropped to a horrified whisper – "I don't even _like _Arsenal."

* * *

By Tuesday morning, Chris and Shaz had sorted out their misunderstanding and the team was back to relative harmony, but the mood was not improved by the morning's papers. More of the tabloids had picked up on the _Mail_'s story and there was a rash of headlines, none of them complimentary to the police. Gene was no longer behaving like a bear with a sore head, but he still looked grim, and the team busied themselves following up every possible lead in an attempt to make a breakthrough.

Alex was still waiting to hear back from DI Lambert, but was reluctant to hassle him: she knew he would be doing what he could. Instead she kept her head down and tried yet again to find in the victim statements any piece of useful information which might have been overlooked. It was not until Wednesday afternoon, however, as she was reading Helen James' statement for the umpteenth time, that the idea struck her.

The theory shocked her at first: it went against so much of the received wisdom that she had been taught, that she was half-inclined to dismiss it. She sat for several minutes, staring at the sheets of paper in front of her, assimilating her ideas, but the more she thought about it, the more she was sure that her hunch was true. Suddenly unable contain herself, she jumped up and was about to knock on Gene's door when it opened in front of her and he came out, just stopping short of knocking her over. He looked down at her in mild surprise and asked "Can I help you, Bolly?" in a tone that was not unfriendly.

"Gene, listen! I've been thinking – going over the witness statements again – and I realised – I mean I don't know, but I'm sure – I know what "Never again" means!"

Gene looked at her, seeing her face flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling at the breakthrough she thought she'd made. _God, she's gorgeous. _He'd forgotten how entrancing she looked when she was like this, so positive, so animated, energy virtually dancing off her skin. Yearning desire began to well up inside him but he stamped it firmly back down. _'Friends', remember? That's all. No use getting your hopes up. Or anything else, for that matter. _His tone was even and friendly as he replied "Well, don't keep it to yourself, then, Bolly, let us all know." He raised his voice a little and addressed the room at large. "Listen up, Munchkins! Sigmund Freud 'ere has just had a startling insight, which she will now share with us."

Alex would rather have spoken to Gene on his own first: in spite of his recent positive attitude, she was still wary of being shot down in flames as had happened on such occasions last year. Still, she rose to the challenge and turned to address the team.

"It's this: up till now, I've assumed that when the attacker said "Never again" after the assaults on Liz Peterson and Helen James, he was talking to himself: he meant that he didn't want to repeat the offence. But the more I think about it, the more I think he was talking to the _victim. _That's why he cuts them genitally – he doesn't want _them _to be able to have sex ever again. And that's _really _interesting psychologically because it hints at quite a complex motive, possibly involving revenge for a past infidelity."

Gene frowned. "So what you're saying is, some bird cheated on him and that's what makes him cut up other birds? To stop them doing the same?"

"Essentially, yes. It didn't occur to me at first, because the revenge-frustration-aggression hypothesis has been rejected by most modern practitioners."

Gene turned to Ray in mock bemusement. "What did Horace say, Winnie?"

Ray grinned appreciatively, but Alex looked completely blank, and Chris responded with a confused "Eh?"

"Harry Hemsley," explained Ray kindly. "It was 'is catchphrase."

Both Chris and Alex asked, "Who?" making Gene inwardly curse himself for showing his age yet again. "Radio ventriloquist," he replied curtly. "Now, can we return to the small matter of a vicious rapist? What makes you so sure about this, Bolly?"

It was hard for someone as logical as Alex to admit a hunch, but she bit her lip and confessed, "Just a gut feeling, really – I don't know where the idea came from." Then more staunchly, in her own defence: "But actually, looking at all the victim statements, it fits very well."

"Nothing wrong with gut feelings." Gene sounded rather satisfied with her. "But, right as you may be, what can we do with it?"

"Well," Alex looked slightly crestfallen as she had to admit, "it's not a great deal of use at the moment, while we don't have a suspect; but when we do, it'll be an important angle in questioning, and in looking at their background."

Six weeks ago he had publicly ridiculed her for such insubstantial insights, but now Gene stayed determinedly positive. "Good stuff, Bolly. Right then, you lot, let's keep working so that we _do_ 'ave a suspect to question as soon as possible, eh?" He gave the deceptively bright smile which his team had come to recognise as a threat, and strode out of the room.

Some five minutes later, Chris looked up from his work with a puzzled expression and asked "Hang on a minute. _Radio _ventriloquist? How does that work then?"

Ray chuckled and leant over confidentially. "Very well," he assured him. "You're _guaranteed _not to see his lips move."

* * *

Alex spent the rest of the day re-thinking the profile and filling in more detail, based on what seemed likely from the cases and text-books she had studied. She went home with her mind still busy over how this might be brought to bear on solving the case, and woke the next morning with the germ of an idea in her mind. She was wary, though; she would need to tread cautiously to get Gene's approval on this one.

Thursday morning's papers brought another wave of frustration to the team. The tabloids were still running with the story and its permutations, now whipping up further public panic at the expense of the Met by digging up other unsolved cases of violence against women from the last twelve months. Meanwhile the story had spread to the broadsheets, with the _Guardian _running an editorial questioning police efficiency and suggesting institutional laxity. Joe Shepherd was fielding another barrage of press enquiries and it wasn't long before Alex saw him in person, slouching in to the office, scruffy clothes and hang-dog face, a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He grimaced at her and mouthed, "Wish me luck," as he headed into Gene's office to try and extract a comment from him. Ten minutes later he emerged, running a hand through his thinning sandy hair and looking even more harassed, and Alex caught a glimpse of Gene's scowling face behind him. Deciding to take a gamble, she got up and entered the office in his stead, closing the door behind her and sitting down opposite Gene. Close up she could see that he looked stressed and weary; she felt a pang, but told herself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

"Make yourself at home, Bolls," he commented automatically, but the sarcasm was gentle. In truth, he was glad to see her. She was a lot better-looking than Joe Shepherd, at all events. His gaze fell to the newspapers lying on his desk, and he frowned again. " "Police inefficiency"? I told Joe, what makes me inefficient is having to waste time giving answers to wanking journalists instead of catching bloody criminals. Bunch of tosspots."

Alex sighed in sympathy. "Yes, I know. But look, I was thinking – there might be a way we could turn all this publicity to our advantage. Use the media for our own ends, yes?"

The frown did not lift but he looked at her intently, listening. "Go on."

"Well, I thought – how about another TV appeal? _Police 5_, like we did last year? It -"

Instantly, Gene's mind was transported back to the television studio he had sat in last year. He felt again all the sensations that had gripped him as he gazed into the unresponsive camera: heart pounding, mouth dry, breaking out in sweat as he tugged at the tight collar which felt as though it were strangling him. He remembered spouting meaningless nonsense as his mind went blank, then running out of words: all his thoughts, all his usual poise and swagger deserting him. Then he remembered the phone call afterwards, the Super calling his performance 'pathetic' and 'ineffectual'. All this in a moment, before he cut across her, his voice flat and final:

"No bloody way, Bolly. I am _not _ever doing that again."

"No, that's not what I meant – I – the thing is - " Alex took a deep breath, willing the words to come out right. "Would you let me do it?"

Gene looked at her sharply, taken by surprise. "You?"

"Yes – I mean, er, I've had a bit of media training." Alex hoped that this came across as it was meant – an ego-saving excuse for Gene's poor performance. "I think I could give quite a detailed description of the kind of man we're looking for – a full profile, looking at probable background, upbringing, relationship history, that kind of thing. If we couple that with talking about the areas where he's known to have operated, well, it could spark off connections in somebody's mind - get us some names to investigate. I mean, _someone's _got to know this guy."

He stared at her, eyes burning into her as he considered the idea. He had no doubt that she would acquit herself extremely well on television, and equally no doubt that the contrast between his performance and hers would be noticed and remarked upon, by those both above and below them in rank. In short, she was asking him to allow her to outshine him, to show him up in a very public way. And yet, he could see the sense in her idea: it was a fresh approach in an inquiry that seemed to be getting nowhere, and it deserved to be given a chance. _She _deserved a chance.

He pursed his lips. "You think they'll do it? The TV people?"

"Well, I don't know, but I can find out, can't I? Personally I think they'd be delighted to feature such a high-profile case…so - can I do it? Can I ask Joe to set it up?"

He exhaled slowly, trying to think of objections, knowing that there were none good enough. "Go on then."

"Great! Thanks, Guv." Alex looked earnestly at him as she said it, trying to convey in her face that she knew what a sacrifice he was making on her behalf. "I'll do it now."

Ten minutes later she was back to report on Joe's approach to London Weekend Television. "They said yes! Not this week, obviously, but next week – a week on Sunday! They want me to go in on Monday, talk over how we're going to approach it, and go from there."

A wry smile twisted Gene's lips. "Well done, Selena Scott." As he watched her leave his office, excited and purposeful, life and energy once more evident in her voice, in her movements, he reflected that the sight was very nearly compensation for any resultant humiliation that might come his way.

* * *

Soon the office was buzzing with the anticipation of another TV appearance, and there was a good atmosphere among the team when they decamped _en masse _to Luigi's on Friday night. Alex spent a happy few hours gossiping and giggling with everyone, only slightly marred by the fact that Gene did not single her out as she had hoped. She had thought that now their relationship was so much better, he might go back to sitting with her at what used to be 'their' table in the corner; but he showed no sign of wanting to leave the team and their banter. Still, in the main, things were good, and she pushed her disappointment down and told herself it didn't matter.

Eventually, at closing time, the team moved slowly and unsteadily up the stairs, only to stop in amazement at the top. Snow had started to fall in the last few hours, and was still falling, great feathery white flakes of it gliding endlessly down in the light of the street-lamps. Already it was lying more than three inches deep, blurring the outlines of kerbs and railings, spreading a little temporary magic over the grimy London street.

After a moment's shocked pause, the team launched themselves into it, laughing and sliding about. No-one knew who threw the first snowball but within moments they were flying everywhere, Chris, Ray, Shaz and the others shouting uproariously as they scooped up great white handfuls. Icy missiles flew in all directions, making huge powdery explosions as they hit their targets. Gene watched as Alex joined the fray, her eyes alight with mischief, cheeks glowing in the cold air, piling in to ally with Shaz and hurl snowballs at Ray and Poirot. When she turned to him, breathless and beaming, to call "Come on, Guv!" and drag him into the game, he almost couldn't bear how beautiful she looked. Tiny snow crystals lodged in the curls of her hair, making her magical, a snow angel_. _She was only an arm's reach away from him, yet somehow, she seemed utterly unattainable. He was consumed with wanting her.

Hours later, as he lay in his own bed staring at the darkness, he still saw before him the image of her face, bright and alive, framed by the falling snow. Try as he might, he could not get rid of it, nor – he had to admit to himself – did he really want to.


	12. Progress

**Here we are at last with another chapter. My thanks to grainweevil, for talking through ideas; Siggy, for valuable advice about the military; and louella and RedSkyAt Night for their beta-ing skills.**

**Please review - it keeps me going!**

The snow continued to fall all through Saturday, and Alex was happy to spend the day in the flat, huddled up in a jumper by the gas fire. By Sunday, however, the sun had come out again, and enough of the roads and pavements had been cleared that it was possible to get about. The combination of blue sky, bright sunshine and pure white snow was irresistible, and Alex wrapped herself up in as many layers as she could muster and headed out for a walk.

She wasn't sure where to go, but once more her subconscious took over and guided her across the river towards Southwark Park. This time she was happy to give in and trust it; after all, last time, it had appeared to have its reasons.

Again she walked through the park, transformed now by the almost unreal white coating. Families had flocked out to take advantage of the snow, and the air was full of snowballs and the excited shouts and screams of children. Alex passed three partially-constructed snowmen in as many minutes, dodged an errant snowball from a pitched battle involving at least twenty teenagers, and almost fell over a toddler whose diminutive sledge crossed the path right in front of her. She walked without hurry, enjoying the general boisterousness and liveliness, trying not to think too much about what, deep down, she was hoping and longing to see.

And then she saw her. Molly. She was with her best friend Sophie, by the park entrance nearest to the area where, in 2008, they would live. They were working on a rather professional-looking snowman, but every now and then, each would take the opportunity to lob a surreptitious snowball when the other wasn't looking. With a lump in her throat, Alex drew as close as she dared, anxious to see her daughter close up, drinking her in. Molly's cheeks were flushed with excitement in the cold air; she giggled infectiously every time she threw a snowball, and then returned to her careful sculpture of some intricate feature of the snowman's face, tongue sticking out of one corner of her mouth as she concentrated. Even as the tears formed in her eyes to see her daughter's achingly familiar mannerisms, Alex could not keep the smile off her face: Molly looked so happy, so absorbed, so right.

A voice cut across her reverie, calling, "Sophie! Molly! Lunch time!" and by the entrance of the park Alex saw Sophie's mother, Kate; the girls responded with "Coming!" and ran towards her. They were halfway to her when, as Alex had known they would, all three of them faded from sight and she was left alone staring at an empty corner of the park. Not even their footprints in the snow remained to show where they had been.

Biting her lip, Alex turned and slowly retraced her steps. There was an ache in her chest at the thought of being permanently separated from Molly, yet she felt grateful for the glimpses of her that she was permitted to see. Furthermore, she was comforted by the thought that she was with Sophie and Kate. Alex had met Kate and become friends with her when the two girls were at play group together, and she had absolute trust in her. She was glad to think that Molly would have Kate's sensible, motherly influence in her life.

* * *

On Monday morning Alex had an encouraging and helpful meeting with the _Police 5_ production team, and returned to Fenchurch East in a buoyant mood. There she gave the team a short briefing on what had been agreed so far, and asked if there were any questions.

A worried-looking Ray raised his hand. "Are they going to do a reconstruction, like last time? 'Cos if they are, will you tell them – _I don't wear any jewellery!_"

Alex tried unsuccessfully to keep the amusement off her face. "It's OK, Ray. The reconstructions will focus on the areas where the attacks happened – better for jogging the viewers' memories – and on the actual crimes; you know, shots of women walking along the streets and so on. They won't include representations of any detectives."

Ray looked relieved, Shaz disappointed. Gene, who had been leaning against a wall in the background, seemed satisfied with the update and did not press her for any more information, and shortly everyone returned to their desks.

"Oh, by the way, Ma'am." It was Shaz. "DI Lambert rang this morning, while you were out. 'E's got some names from the army depot to follow up – can you call 'im back?"

"Of course – thanks, Shaz." Alex smiled at the younger woman and called Lambert's number.

"Alex!" She wondered if he was ever going to stop sounding so ridiculously pleased to hear from her. "We've been back over the stuff from the Chilwell base. There were around 20 soldiers who were offsite on the dates in question, but we've managed to eliminate most of them. There's a handful, though, that I'm not so sure about, and two in particular who I think warrant a closer look. Thing is, both of them have now left the Army – present whereabouts unknown. But I thought it might be profitable to go back there, have a chat to some of the people who knew them – you know, try to get an idea of what kind of blokes they were. I was wondering if you'd be able to come along? Your experience and insight could be really helpful – you're so good at this psychological profiling lark. You'd know the right questions to ask and you might well pick up on something that I'd miss."

Alex smiled at his obvious flattery but felt pleased all the same. She cast a glance at Gene's office door. He had been so different to her lately, so much more affirmative – he deserved her to play by his rules this time. "That's a great idea, Andrew," she replied, "but I'll have to clear it with DCI Hunt. Leave it with me, I'll get back to you. When were you thinking of?"

"Well, as soon as possible, really – tomorrow or Wednesday?"

"I'll see what I can do."

As Alex had anticipated, Gene did not welcome with open arms the suggestion of her heading back to Nottingham. "Why can't Lambert do it himself? Does he need you to hold his hand?" The moment he'd said it, the most unwelcome image of Drake and Lambert hand-in-hand presented itself in his head. The sour expression on his face intensified accordingly.

Alex tried to be patient. "Guv, you know it's not like that, he just thinks that my expertise - "

"Didn't Notts police interview everyone on the base anyway, when all this first happened?" Gene demanded. "What's he think he's going to achieve by goin' back now, if these blokes aren't even there any more?"

A derisory sniff behind her told Alex that Ray had been shamelessly listening at the open office door. "Doesn't mean owt, Guv," he chipped in. "West Yorkshire Police interviewed the Yorkshire Ripper nine times before they caught the bugger."

Gene glared at him. "Yes, Raymondo, but they were twats from _Yorkshire_, what can you expect?" Ray scowled, recognising the intentional dig at his own Yorkshire ancestry. "Still," Gene continued with a sigh, "I s'pose twats from Nottinghamshire aren't much better. Go on then, Bolly Knickers, go and sort 'em out. Do your Uri Geller stuff and tell 'em who it is." He turned away to the window to signal that the conversation was at an end.

* * *

Alex caught the train and arrived at Nottingham station about one o'clock on Wednesday afternoon. Lambert met her and drove them straight out to the army base on the south-west outskirts of the town. Snow still lay over the rooftops and the surrounding fields, but not as thickly as in London; the fall here had not been so heavy. Arriving at the depot, they explained their business to the military police on guard duty and were directed through the sprawling camp, past parade grounds and store buildings, to a little cluster of two-storey brick offices in the heart of the base. The sun struggled weakly to break through, but it was bitterly cold as Alex and Lambert got out of the car and walked briskly towards the building to which they had been directed.

A receptionist greeted them and took them along a corridor to the office of Lieutenant Colonel Hunter at the end. Alex noticed that most of the offices they passed on the way seemed to be vacant. When Hunter, a tall, good-looking, patrician type in his mid-forties, had introduced himself as second-in-command to the Commandant, Brigadier Berrigan, she questioned him about it.

"Oh, yes, didn't you know?" His voice was upper-class, matching his appearance. "COD Chilwell is closing. Due to wind up completely at the end of March. We've been losing men and equipment for months, sending them to other depots. We're pretty much running on a skeleton staff now."

Alex was surprised; she was sure she'd still seen signs to 'MOD Chilwell' right into the 2000s. "Closing completely?" she asked.

"As far as the Royal Army Ordnance Corps is concerned, yes," he confirmed. "There are other units here as well, so the army presence here may well continue, but for the ordnance depot, it's the end of the road. Anyway," he seemed to recall himself from his slightly melancholy musings with an effort, "let's return to the reason for your visit today."

"Yes." At once Lambert was all smiles, charming and deferential. "It really is very good of you to make time to see us, Sir."

_Gene wouldn't say that, _Alex caught herself thinking. _Wouldn't bother sucking up. Get on with it, Lambert. _Then, with a guilty start, _Stop thinking about Gene, you stupid woman._

"Not at all," Hunter was replying, addressing himself to Lambert. "The thing is, as I'm sure you realise, having soldiers under suspicion, even ones who have now left us, does not reflect well on the army. Now, I wish to assure you that we will do _all in our power _to assist you, and if it turns out that one of our men is indeed guilty of this very serious crime, there will be no question of shielding or protecting him in any way. _However,_" and here he looked at them sharply, "I would ask that until such time as guilt, or at least the very strong suspicion of it, is proven, you would exercise some circumspection in the way you handle your activities here, particularly in relation to the press. In plain terms, please do not encourage idle speculation that the perpetrator of these crimes was a soldier, until there is very good reason to suppose that that is the case."

Lambert hastened to ensure him of their discretion, and after a moment's hesitation, Alex also agreed. She had not planned to mention a military connection in her TV profile of the offender as she did not want to narrow down the field of suspects too much at this stage.

Hunter went on to give more information about the two men in whom Lambert was interested, Gary Brewer and Kevin Woods. Both were privates who had been stationed at the base last spring, and both had been questioned after the initial attack in Chilwell. At the time, each had appeared to give an acceptable alibi: Brewer had been drinking with a colleague in a local pub, while Woods had been to the cinema. After that, focus had shifted away from the base as the assaults took place nearer the town centre. Lambert's recent investigations, however, had shown that they had both been off camp at the time of the two subsequent attacks, and that their alibis were not water-tight. Brewer's relied on the word of only one other person, known to be a friend of his; while questions at the cinema had revealed that while the staff definitely remembered seeing Woods, who was a regular, there was sufficient time between the end of the film and his return to the barracks for him to have carried out the attack on the way home.

Hunter now produced the two men's service records and talked the detectives through them. Woods had been in the army for seven years, Brewer around five. Both had served in various parts of the UK and Europe, and had done a tour of duty in Northern Ireland at the end of 1980 before being stationed at Chilwell. Brewer's disciplinary record was largely clean, with only minor misdemeanours recorded, but Woods had been disciplined on a couple of occasions for arguments with fellow soldiers which had turned into scuffles or fights. Brewer had stayed at the base until July 1981, at which point he had left the army, while Woods had been posted at the beginning of May to a base in West Germany. Hunter explained that it was unusual to be sent abroad for a final posting, but such was the impetus to clear Chilwell of personnel that several men in Woods' position had been sent there.

He went on to say that while the men's commanding officer during their period at Chilwell was also now in Germany, the sergeant of their section was still on the base. As he had been in direct command of them and had daily contact with them, he seemed the best person to question about their character and background. Thus Alex and Lambert found themselves escorted outside again, walking briskly in the freezing cold afternoon towards another group of buildings. This was the accommodation block where the two men had lived while at Chilwell; they were met there by Sergeant Harris.

Alex immediately warmed to Harris; he seemed down-to-earth and to have no agenda except to be helpful. He showed them around the area in which the soldiers lived, answering all their questions and painting a vivid picture of the men's way of life, before taking them to his small office in another block to discuss Brewer and Woods specifically.

"Gary Brewer, well, he was a quiet sort. Bit of a square, really. Into train-spotting, and just how you'd imagine a train-spotter to be – you know, the little notebook and pencil and everything. He kept to himself, didn't join in with the lads much. Just had the one friend, Tony Smith, really – they used to go train-spotting together. Bit of a saddos club, the pair of them."

"How about family life, any personal relationships at home? Do you know anything about that?" asked Alex.

"Well, his dad had died when he was about twelve, which he seemed to have taken a bit hard… he was close to his mum, though. Never heard anything about him having a girlfriend. Not much of a one for the ladies. Not saying he was queer, mind," Harris added quickly. "Nothing to make you think that. Just, very shy around women. I don't suppose they were that interested in trains," he finished with a wry grin.

"And what about Woods? What kind of a man was he?"

"Well, another one who kept himself to himself, funnily enough. Even more so than Brewer – he didn't really seem to have any mates. Hard to say why – he just used to get a bit funny about things, sometimes. Bit of a control freak, and, you know, people don't really like that. 'S funny, he was very good at his work, very conscientious, and after so long you'd have thought he'd have been bumped up to Corporal, but when you knew him, you could see why he hadn't. Just, not got the ability to handle people, you know what I mean?"

Alex and Lambert nodded in agreement. "And family background?"

"Well, he never said much about it, but I don't think it was a good one. Didn't seem to have much to do with his parents. Relationship-wise, well, he had a steady girlfriend and they got engaged, but then broke it off, beginning of last year. Difficult to tell how he took it, really – like I say, he wasn't one to give much away."

Lambert and Alex continued their questioning, gently prompting the sergeant to recall as much detail as he could about each man. Some things seemed to point more towards one suspect, some to the other, and Alex was privately amused to think that the investigations should have thrown up two such text-book loners. A few months ago, she would have chided her subconscious for coming up with such a cliché, but now, she reflected, she didn't have that option any more. This world, it seemed, was real.

Eventually they thanked Harris for his time and helpfulness, and stood up to go. As they were shaking hands, the sergeant commented, "Oh yes, while I remember, one more thing. About Kevin Woods. He used to get very funny about his stuff – you know, very possessive. If anyone borrowed anything of his and he found out about it, he'd go spare. Like I said, a control freak."

Alex and Lambert's eyes met.

* * *

They were deep in conversation as they walked back across the site to the car. Both agreed that Woods sounded a likely suspect and warranted more investigation, the drawback of course being that it would be very difficult to track him down. However, they acknowledged that he was just one possibility among many, that Brewer should also be traced and questioned again, and that there was still no concrete proof that the attacker was connected with the army at all. Alex felt frustration at the continuing vagueness of the enquiry, and hoped that the follow-up from today would bring some more definite leads.

The heavy grey sky was finally delivering what it had promised: large snowflakes swirled around them as they walked, and Alex shivered, glad to get back in the car. As they drove back into Nottingham the weather worsened as dusk fell, and in consequence the traffic was bad, slowing them down. They crawled through what seemed like an eternity of wet roads, red brake-lights, interminable windscreen-wipers and irritable motorists. Alex found herself reflecting on how patiently Lambert handled it, compared with Gene. She almost missed the ranting.

Eventually as they drew close to the railway station, Lambert said, "I don't like the look of this. You'd better go in and check whether your train's running – you don't want to get caught out." He pulled into the drop-off area in front of the station entrance. "I'll wait here."

He was right. Five minutes later Alex emerged from the station with an exasperated look on her face. "I don't believe it!" she exclaimed with force and some embarrassment. "All trains to London cancelled! Apparently the fall's much heavier further south and they're having such trouble with the wheels slipping, they've decided it's not safe to run any more trains this evening. They said something ridiculous about it being 'the wrong kind of snow' - " she broke off and gazed at him as the full implications of the situation began to dawn on her. It would have taken a stronger man than Andrew Lambert to resist her enormous, worried tawny eyes. Even if he had wanted to resist.

"Look, no need to worry, we'll find you somewhere to stay easily enough…" He was wondering just how far he could go down that route, but Alex cut him off before he could get too ambitious.

"Of course, I can stay in a hotel – in fact, is that one there?" She pointed to a large Victorian building opposite the station, which bore the legend 'Railway Hotel' in rather faded lettering.

Lambert recovered swiftly. "Sure, why not? Then you'll be on the spot for when the trains do start running again. But listen – the Railway Hotel is OK, but the restaurant is really nothing special. Why not let me take you out for dinner? I know somewhere much nicer where we could go."

"Oh… well, if you're sure, that would be lovely." Alex genuinely appreciated his concern, even though she suspected he might have ulterior motives. "Um… sorry to be a nuisance, but could we just pop to the shopping centre? Obviously I'm not prepared for an overnight stay; it would be great if I could just buy a couple of things before the shops shut."

"Sure."

He dropped her where she could easily reach Boots and Marks & Spencer, to get toiletries and a change of underwear, and then ran her back to the hotel with the promise to meet her again in an hour. Alex got a basic but clean room and lay on the bed for a while, reflecting. She thought wistfully of when she had stayed in the other hotel, with Gene… Perhaps it was just as well that this was a different one. The thought of what they had had there, and lost, was too painful to dwell on. She so much wanted to try again, but lately, although Gene was mostly pleasant to her, he hadn't given any sign that he felt the same way. He seemed to be...holding back a little, somehow. Sorrowfully, she wondered why.

Eventually she made herself look as presentable as possible and went down to meet Lambert. He took her to a cosy little bistro in the town centre. The food was delicious and the wine a great deal better than Luigi's house rubbish, but she still found herself yearning for the familiar table in the corner, and Luigi's experimental approach to food combinations. Shaking her head slightly, she told herself not to be silly.

At first they talked about work. Alex asked how progress was going on the Hazel Armstrong rape case, and Lambert talked about his frustration that it seemed to be getting nowhere. "We followed up the stuff you got out of her, but the lecturer was never really a serious contender and we can't get anything to stick on the stalker student. I've interviewed him repeatedly and he admits all the stuff she accused him of, following her and so on, but flatly denies any involvement in the attack, and there's nothing to link him to it. And no-one else coming forward with anything."

Alex considered, thinking over more modern methods and how they might be brought to bear on the case. After a moment she suggested, "How about staging a reconstruction? You get someone who looks like Hazel, wearing similar clothes to her, to walk the route she took through the campus that night, and invite the university community – and the media – along to watch. It can be useful in jogging someone's memory."

"That sounds interesting – tell me more," he replied at once, and so Alex described other reconstructions she had been involved in, and how they had worked. Then they moved on to more general discussions of work, their career experiences and hopes, their lives in general. Alex could not fault Lambert as a companion – he was attentive, charming and intelligent, and moreover seemed genuinely very interested in her. At the end of the evening he walked her back to the hotel and she knew that he was hoping for a kiss, but she quickly forestalled him with a brief peck on the cheek.

"Thank you so much for this evening, Andrew, I really enjoyed it." She meant it, too, and hoped that it would go some way to make up for the flicker of disappointment which he tried so hard to hide. As she made her way up to her hotel room, alone, she could not help but feel sorry for Lambert. After all, in her old life, in 2008, he would probably have been exactly the sort of man she would have gone for. It was hardly his fault that the man she really wanted to spend her evening with was over a hundred miles away.

* * *

Over a hundred miles away, Gene fell into bed, cold and alone. He didn't feel randy, but he wished there was someone else there. His wife hadn't been all that much to look at, but she'd been a nice, plump, comfortable armful of woman to hold onto in bed at night, and sometimes that was what he missed most of all about being married.

Lying in the darkness, sleep evading him, he began to think back over the years of his marriage. Of course, things had eventually gone sour between him and his wife, but there had been a lot of years when they'd been happy together. Well, happy enough, anyway. Well, he'd been happy enough, and he'd always assumed that she was too… until it turned out that she wasn't. And she hadn't been for a long time. And she left.

_Bloody women. Can never fathom them. _He'd missed the significance of the way her nagging had gradually increased; he'd just thought it was what all men had to put up with. Eventually, though, things had got so sour that he'd had to take notice, and the last couple of years had been a miserable stalemate for both of them.

When things had finally reached the bitter end and she moved out, he had sworn that he would never live with a woman again. A year on his own in a soulless flat in a strange city had shown him that perhaps he was mistaken. He missed the company, missed having someone to come home to at night, and had even begun to see how much he had taken his wife for granted. He regretted it now, but he hadn't realised at the time. It was just what husbands did.

And then _she _had arrived, and blown all his ideas about women right up in the air, and made him want her more than he had thought was possible. It wasn't just his own loneliness that had drawn him to Alex, though, nor was it simply physical desire. He could have found someone to fill his bed and cook his meals easily enough, if that was all he had wanted and he hadn't been too choosy. No, there was so much more about Alex – her intelligence, her feistiness, her frequent kindness, and above all, the strange vulnerability that gave him that absurd urge to protect her. All these things made her at the same time more desirable than any woman he'd ever met, and more out of reach.

And yet he longed for her, longed for a future that included her, although he had no idea what that would look like, how it could work out. She was nowhere near his idea of what a wife would be like. He tried to imagine her in an apron, cooking or cleaning or gossiping on the front step like his wife used to do, and failed miserably. The idea was laughable – she'd never settle for that kind of life, and he wouldn't want her to. But then what would they do together? Maybe that wouldn't be so much of a problem – they'd pretty much established that both of them did nothing but work. A wry smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he remembered them catching one another out, both sneaking into the office on a Bank Holiday because they had nothing better to do. Perhaps they were more alike than he thought.

But it was all pointless anyway, because she had said she wanted to be friends. Just friends. He had had one night with her, and that looked like all he would ever get. He considered the irony of the fact that with so many other women, one night was all that he'd wanted, and if they had run after him afterwards, it was just a nuisance. Now he was the one left wanting more. He supposed there was some justice in that somewhere.

* * *

Alex phoned Fenchurch East first thing on Thursday morning and explained what had happened and why she wouldn't be back till later. After breakfast she headed over to the station and found that trains were starting to run again and she could catch one mid-morning. She eventually arrived back in CID around lunch-time.

Gene had been suffering from the most irrational feelings of jealousy ever since Alex had phoned in that morning. He couldn't shake the image of Alex with that swotty creep Lambert from his mind, and once he'd heard that she'd stayed overnight in a hotel, his imagination had gone into overdrive. Well, considering what had happened last time she was in a hotel… He felt a surge of longing at the remembered feel of her body, followed by a twisting in his guts at the thought that the same scene might have been replayed with Lambert instead of him.

When she appeared he couldn't stop himself sauntering over and asking in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, "'ave a nice time in Nottingham, then?"

"Very nice, thank you." There was a slight challenge in her wide-eyed, innocent gaze as she added, "Andrew took me out to dinner."

_Bastard. _"Did 'e now?" He tried to keep his tone light.

"Yes, he did, actually." _I wish you would. _"It was lovely." _Why don't you do that?_

He couldn't help himself. "Just dinner? Or did you get anything else?"

She looked at him in shock for a moment, then gasped as she took in what he meant. "I hardly think this is the place to discuss that, even if it was any of your business!" she hissed back. _Git. What do you think I am? Can't you see that it's you I want?_

"Everything my team do is my business, Bolly," he replied, hard-faced. "However, leaving aside the fascinating subject of your social life, did you actually get anything useful out of the escapade?"

Her voice was tight as she replied, trying to maintain her dignity. "Yes, I think so. We got a great deal of information on two possible suspects." She filled him in on all the details they had learned yesterday, but his responses were curt. When he had gone, she sat at her desk feeling confused. In some ways he seemed jealous of Lambert and that, perhaps, was a good thing – it meant he was interested in her. But then, why did he not make a move, and why did he have to be so cold sometimes? She chewed her lip as she tried to work it out, but then shook her head and tried to banish him from her mind. There was work to do.

She filled in the rest of the team and got them working on discovering the present whereabouts of Brewer and Woods, then settled down to review her other work and write up some more notes for her forthcoming TV appearance.

On Friday she had another meeting with the TV production crew, and it was late afternoon when she returned.

"All set then, Bolly?" Gene had simmered down from his annoyance with Lambert and was making a fresh attempt to be genial.

"Yes, I think so. I'm quite looking forward to it, actually." It was true. She had the feeling it was something she could be good at, and now, fully prepared, she was eager for the appearance itself.

"And what time do they want us at the studio?" Gene enquired.

"You?" She could not keep the surprise out of her voice. "Why are you coming?"

Gene's eyes narrowed. "Full team effort, isn't it? Like last time? We're working on this case too, you know."

Alex looked around at them, at Gene's challenging frown, his jutting chin, and then at Ray, Chris and Shaz's hopeful faces. _Probably hoping to see Nookie Bear again. _There was no earthly reason why they needed to come to the studio with her, but she knew a lost cause when she saw one. And she did want to do things Gene's way, where possible. "Fine," she put on a bright smile. "Er, yes, of course. Great. They, er, they want me to be there from ten o'clock, for makeup and so on, but the programme doesn't go out until one, so…" She trailed off. How long did they really want to hang around for?

Gene nodded, sniffing. "I'll be there." And so saying, he pulled on his gloves and black overcoat and strode out of the door.

* * *

Gene sat in the production gallery, watching Alex on the monitors. She looked calm, composed and fully in control as she described the kind of man they were looking for. "...It's likely that his family background was a disturbed one, with parental conflict or break-up during his childhood or adolescence. The style of parenting which he received may well have been neglectful, manipulative, inconsistent, or violent. In terms of character, he probably has a low sense of self-esteem, or one which is unstable and fluctuating. He'll find it difficult to form normal relationships, and will come across as something of a loner. He may experience sudden outbursts of anger, and possibly have a previous history of non-sexual violence.

"He will have had trouble forming appropriate relationships with the opposite sex, and any previous relationships may well have been with very young, impressionable or otherwise vulnerable women. In those relationships he will have exhibited various kinds of controlling behaviour – constantly wanting to monitor who the woman is with, where she's going, that kind of thing. Power and control will be very important to him."

"Fascinating," the deep reassuring tones of Shaw Taylor cut across her. "Now then, DI Drake, there's one more thing which you believe is particularly significant, isn't there?"

"That's right." Her smile showed total poise and confidence. "We have reason to believe that he may have experienced a relationship in which he felt that he was betrayed in some way – possibly a woman was unfaithful to him, or he believed that she was. We think that may have been the catalyst for his actions."

"Thank you very much, DI Drake." Shaw turned back to address the camera. "And there you have it. You've seen our reconstruction – the areas in Nottingham and London where these horrific crimes took place. Are you familiar with those places? Were you there around the time of the attacks, and did you see anything? Or do you know someone who is often around those areas? Moreover, you have heard DI Drake's detailed description of the kind of person this criminal could be. Do you know anyone who might fit that description? Of course, we all hate to think that anyone we know might be capable of such actions, but please, remember the very serious nature of what has gone on here. This is a very dangerous man, who is very likely to strike again unless he is caught. If you know him, _you_ can prevent further attacks by telling us his name. You can call either of the two numbers coming up on your screens..."

Shaw brought the programme to a close and signed off with his familiar "Keep 'em peeled!" and the theme music began to play. Gene let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. She'd done it, and she'd done it perfectly, as he had known she would. He was filled with a mixture of admiration and embarrassment at how her performance had compared with his. God, even the smell of this place had brought him out in a sweat again, as soon as he had walked through the door. He felt uncomfortable just being here, but she had taken it all in her stride, as though she did it every day. And now here she was, coming through the swing doors to the gallery, smiling in relief, and the others were all over her, congratulating her, Shaz's voice exclaiming, "You did so well, Ma'am!" _Damn_. He knew they were all making the comparisons in their minds, and he hated it, but he couldn't hate _her. _Not when she was standing there, looking beautiful, hair and makeup done to perfection by the TV crew, but more than that, looking radiant, glowing with the excitement of having faced a new challenge and passed with flying colours. He stood back, in the shadows, letting the others laud her, wanting her more than ever. Alex, not understanding, felt slightly hurt by his apparent indifference.

* * *

Back at work on Monday morning, a few calls came through with possible information about the London attacks, and Shaz and the others made careful notes, but there was nothing of much substance. Then, around lunchtime, Lambert rang. Straight away, Alex could hear the excitement in his voice.

"Alex, listen! We've had a call from a young woman who heard your description of the attacker yesterday and thinks it fits her fiancé - well, ex-fiancé, to be precise. And guess what his name is?"

"Go on." Alex already had a sneaking suspicion of what he was going to say; it was confirmed immediately.

"Kevin Woods."


	13. Alison

**Massive thanks to grainweevil and RedSkyAtNight76, who have both contributed hugely to this chapter, firstly in coming up with ideas and then in picking over the finished product at the end. I couldn't do it without you! Thanks also to Lucida Bright for letting me borrow Luigi's cousin Enzo and his fish restaurant. If anyone is wondering, they appear in her first piece of fic, 'Torch Songs'.**

**Thanks too to all you who continue to read and review - I appreciate it so much. Hopefully you may be pleased with some of the progress in this chapter.**

The moment Alex laid eyes on Alison Rayner, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. With her blue eyes and curly blonde hair, she bore a striking resemblance to the first rape victim, Liz Peterson. Reminding herself not to jump to conclusions, Alex greeted the young woman warmly. She had travelled down to London from her home in Northamptonshire to speak to them, and now looked as though she was regretting it; her eyes were wary, her pale hands clenched together as she huddled her shoulders into her cheap tan leather jacket. Andrew Lambert, who had also come down to hear what she had to say, did his best to welcome her and make her feel relaxed, but in fact it was Gene who probably made the most progress in that area, by wordlessly handing her a cigarette and lighting it.

To Alex's relief, both men had agreed to let her lead the interview. Inviting Alison to sit down, she briefly made introductions, then began the slow process of coaxing out Alison's story of her relationship with Kevin Woods.

They had met five years ago when Woods was twenty and Alison just fifteen. He had been home on leave, visiting family in Corby, the town where he had grown up and where Alison lived. When invited to share what she knew of Woods' family background, Alison told a story which matched almost exactly with Alex's predictions.

Woods' father had been a violent alcoholic who came and went from the family home during his son's early years, eventually leaving for good when Woods was ten and his younger brother eight. After that his mother had had a succession of unstable relationships with different men, some of whom had lived with them for varying periods of time. Alison had met Woods' mother and also heard his description of the way she had brought him up. She was beginning to relax as she tried to describe the relationship.

"Thing is, I don't think he ever knew where he was with her. Sometimes she'd be really affectionate and say he was the best thing in her life and all that, others she'd be screaming and cursing at him, or just ignoring him. Whenever a new bloke came along, she'd pretty much abandon him and his brother. Sometimes she'd leave 'em alone all night, even when they were quite young, if she had a new man. And then if it went wrong, she'd be back all over them again."

Not surprisingly, perhaps, Woods had been disaffected at school and left with few qualifications; he had then drifted for a couple of years, and had one or two minor run-ins with the law before joining the army. There he had found the structure and stability that he needed, and seemed more settled by the time Alison had met him. "He seemed, you know, quite steady. And I suppose I was flattered, that someone who was grown-up and in the army and everything wanted to go out with me. It made me one up on all my friends, their boyfriends were still at school."

Alex nodded understandingly, trying to make all her body language reassuring. Gently she prompted "And how did your family feel about him?"

Alison pulled a face. "They didn't care much what I did. My mum's always cared more about the twins – my sisters – 'cos they were the beautiful ones, the clever ones – " – the bitterness in her voice was plain – " – and my dad's only really bothered about Daniel, 'cos he's the boy. I was always a bit spare. I s'pose that's another reason why I fell for Kevin so easily, really. He was someone that wanted me. He seemed to care. Made me feel special." Her gaze flickered around the three detectives as though in fear of their judgment.

"That's a very insightful description," replied Alex encouragingly. She was already impressed with the young woman's self-awareness: she may not have had the best start in life, but she was certainly not stupid. "Go on."

"Well." Alison swallowed and seemed to rally a little. "I left school and got a job, and there was his pay too, so after a couple of years we managed to afford to rent a flat together. Just a tiny one, but it was ours. I mean, neither of us really felt wanted at our parents' houses, so it was lovely to have a place to ourselves. I was there on my own most of the time, of course, but whenever he got leave he'd come home there."

"And how would you describe your relationship?" Alex asked. She and Alison sat opposite one another at the interview table, heads leaning towards one another, a position of listening, of confidences. The two men were further back, although out of the corner of her eye Alex was aware of them: Lambert sitting neatly, attentive, notepad on his lap; Gene, by contrast, leaning carelessly against the wall, eyes narrowed as he weighed what Alison was saying. Alex noticed that although Gene was quiet, Alison kept glancing at him, seeming to recognise him as the true power in the room.

Her answer to Alex's question was a quiet, hollow laugh. "Relationship? At the time I'd have described it as great."

"But now you think differently?"

"Yeah. I can see now, how he wanted to control me. But it started so small, you know? When he asked me all about where I'd been and who I'd been with, I thought it was lovely that he was so interested. If he didn't like me going out in groups that included blokes, I thought that it was just that he cared about me, wanted to keep me safe. When he got jealous, I told myself it was just because he loved me so much. Stupid, eh?" Again, she looked around at the detectives for an answer.

"No, no – it's totally understandable," Alex answered soothingly. "So he tried to control where you went and who you saw, yes?"

"All the time. Of course, he was away most of the time, but he'd ring as often as he could – every day, if he got the chance – and he'd always want to know exactly what I'd been doing, and who with. I had to give him a really detailed description, or he'd think I was lying to him."

"And what happened then?"

Alison's hand shook as she raised the cigarette to her lips and took a drag, then blew out a shuddering breath. "He'd get so angry – shouting at me, calling me a slut - "- she swallowed nervously – "- and I'd be crying. I kept saying, 'I'm telling you the truth', begging him to listen, you know?" She was trembling as she spoke. "Usually he'd calm down after a bit. Then he'd write me a letter, telling me how sorry he was, but it was just that he loved me so much and couldn't I see that he wanted to keep me safe? And like a fool, I believed him."

"Did he ever get violent, or threaten you with violence?"

"Yeah, sometimes, if he was at home when we had the rows. He'd put his hands round my throat, get me up against the wall, or else get me by the hair – or he'd grab something, whatever was nearest, and threaten to hit me with it or cut me with it. He only actually hit me a couple of times – well, in the early days, anyway."

"Why do you think that was?"

Alison frowned, as though she hadn't thought about this before. After a moment she said, "I s'pose he didn't like the idea of hitting a girl. But if we were out together and he thought any bloke was looking at me, he'd be more than ready to hit him. He got into quite a few fights like that."

"And did he try to control you in other ways?"

Alison nodded. "Money was another big thing for him. He wanted to know all the details, everything that came in and went out. I had to write it all down. To begin with I thought it was sweet – you know, that he was making sure we were OK for money, keeping an eye on everything – but he took it too far. He'd want to know everything I'd bought and how much I'd paid, and he'd get cross if he thought it was too much. It got so that I couldn't buy anything for myself, he'd always say it was too expensive. I mean, I was earning quite a good wage, I could afford to buy myself the occasional pair of shoes or something, but he'd get so mad if I did, it wasn't worth it. And of course, if I bought anything like that, new clothes or anything, he'd always say it was because I was trying to look good for other blokes, because I was a tart." Again the hollow laugh. "God, how jealous can you be? I'd never been with anyone else, at that point."

"But eventually you did?"

Alison took a deep breath, nodding once more. "Yeah. But it was before that, that I really changed my mind. You see, the girls that I worked with could see what was happening, even though I couldn't, and they were always trying to persuade me to leave him. And I ignored them, refused to see what they were saying, because I still thought he loved me. I thought I loved him. But then one of them lent me this book, and I don't know why – I suppose I must have been getting a bit fed up of things by then – but I read it. And it was all about men who control, abusers it called them, and the different ways that they go about it. And it was Kevin. I mean, it just described him perfectly, everything he did. It was that that made me realise that it wasn't normal, that he was abusing me. And I decided I'd had enough."

"Ah." Alex was beginning to understand how Alison had come to such a discerning view of her situation. "So did you tell him?"

She shook her head. "No, he was away – he was in Northern Ireland for three months. I couldn't tell him over the phone. I tried to write letters but they never came out right – I always ended up tearing them up. Eventually I decided I'd have to wait and tell him when he got back. And then, while I was waiting, I met Steve."

"Steve?"

"Yeah. I met him while I was out with a couple of my friends one night, in the pub – we just started chatting. I hadn't meant to go looking for anyone, but he seemed so nice, so when he asked me if I'd go to the pictures with him, I said yes. I mean, like I said, I'd already decided to end it with Kevin," she added defensively.

"Yes, of course." Alex was quick to reassure.

"So I saw him a few more times, and he was so nice, and so different from Kevin. He made me realise what it was like to be treated properly, you know, with a bit of respect. So as soon as Kevin got back, first evening, I told him that it was over, that I'd had enough of how he treated me, and I'd met someone else."

"And how did he react to that?"

"He went absolutely mad. Shouting, calling me a whore, all this stuff about how I'd been sleeping around while he was risking his life in Ireland. He grabbed me by the hair, smacked me around the face…" She was shaking as she recalled the experience, and again swallowed convulsively. "Then he let me go for a minute, I think he was looking for something to hurt me with - but I ran. I ran away, got out, went to my friend who just lived a couple of doors away and we locked the door and I stayed with her all night. At first he was banging on the door and shouting and I was shaking, terrified…"

"Didn't you call the police?" interjected Lambert.

"I thought of it, but my friend said the police weren't interested in domestics and it'd be a waste of time." The detectives looked uncomfortable: they were painfully aware of the truth of this accusation. "Anyway," Alison continued, "he went quiet after a bit. I thought he'd be back the next day but there was nothing. Eventually I got Steve and his mate to come with me and I went back to the flat, but when we got there, he'd gone. He'd completely packed up and taken everything that was his out of there, and cleared out. He left a note saying I was a disgusting whore and he never wanted to see or hear from me again – and that's it. He hasn't been back since, and I haven't exactly wanted to go looking for him. I just tried to get on with my life."

"But the television appeal made you think of him?"

Alison took a shaky breath, nodding. "Yeah – I was watching it round at my mate's house, and when I heard you talking about the kind of bloke you were looking for, I said, 'That's Kevin, that's exactly Kevin'. And then I thought, 'No, it can't be', because you never want to believe that someone you know could do that sort of thing, do you? But then when you said the first few attacks had been in Nottingham, and the first one in Chilwell, well, I knew that's where he was sent after he came back from Ireland. And it just seemed too much of a coincidence. And my friend said I should call you, so I did. I mean, God knows, I hope it's not him...." She tailed away, anxious eyes trained on Alex's face. "Look, he'll never know that it was me that talked to you, will he? You'll keep him away from me?"

Alex hastened to assure her that she would receive full anonymity, and had done exactly the right thing in telling them of her suspicions. Gene and Lambert then joined in the questioning, searching for anything that might be relevant. Lambert confined his queries to more details about Alison's relationship with Woods, but Gene, still prowling around at the back of the room, seemed determined to ask about matters more immediately related to the crimes. "Did he like going to the cinema?"

"What? Oh, yeah, definitely. He was a bit of a film nut. He was always dragging me to see stuff I didn't really like, horror films and that."

Gene grunted at this confirmation, and continued, "Did he have a knife?"

The details of the assaults on the women had never been made public. "A knife?"

"Yes, you know." Gene sounded a bit impatient. "Lock-knife, penknife, small kitchen knife he carried around with him, anything like that?"

Alison looked confused, ""No. Er - maybe, I... I don't know. All soldiers have knives, don't they? I think he had a penknife, I'm not sure."

"Hmmn. And, ah, did he show any interest in prostitutes?"

"_What?_" Alison was shocked. "Not that I ever knew about – I mean, why would he? He was with me," she added defensively. Alex shot Gene a warning look; she did not want to upset Alison at this stage.

To defuse the situation, Lambert asked whether Alison could provide them with a photo of Woods and she reached into her handbag, smiling ruefully. "I thought you might ask me that. I got rid of most of them, but there were a few I wanted to keep, because they had other stuff on that was important to me – you know, places, friends, stuff like that. So I brought these." She handed over four or five small photographs. They were not very clear, but showed Woods as a tall, dark, lean man, totally compatible with the sketchy descriptions given by the victims.

Gene finally moved forward, dragging a chair out from the table and sitting down opposite Alison. "Right, luv," he addressed her, "it's only fair to tell you that Kevin Woods' name has already been flagged up for us and we'd like to talk to the bugger, but we're having a bit of trouble finding him. He left the army last August and seems to 'ave dropped off the radar since then – no sign at any of his old addresses in Corby. Chances are, if he's our man, he's in London now, but most likely with a different name. Easy enough to work, or even sign on, under a false name. Now, we contacted his mum - " - he shifted and leaned back in his chair, but did not break his shrewd scrutiny of Alison's face - " – but she says she's no idea where he is. Do you reckon that's likely to be true?"

"Yeah, I do," replied Alison, looking him in the eye. "Kevin gave up on his mum two or three years back – he'd finally had enough of her messing him about. I doubt she'd know where he is. But I'll tell you who will, though."

Despite themselves, the three detectives leant forwards, eager to hear what could be solid information at last. Evenly, Alison continued, "The one who was always there for Kevin was his gran. When it got too much at his mum's house, he'd go round there. He always kept in touch with her, no matter where he was, what he was doing. If anyone knows where he is, it'll be his gran."

* * *

"Well, Alex, you're amazing!" Lambert commented as soon as Alison Rayner had gone. "Everything you've said about this guy turns out to be right! I can hardly believe it – every word she said just confirmed your description of him."

Gene glowered; he'd been about to voice the same sentiments himself, though with rather more irony and less effusive language, and he was annoyed with Lambert for getting his compliment in first. Alex smiled, trying not to look too pleased with herself but not entirely succeeding.

Gene butted in, addressing Alex as if Lambert wasn't there. "So, Doris Stokes, d'you reckon he's the one you saw in your crystal ball?"

Alex ignored the sarcasm and answered the question. "Well, I know it's wrong to jump ahead of ourselves, but yes, I really do. Everything fits. The background, the personality are just right. I think he was disgusted with Alison when he found out about the new man, and walked away from that part of his life, but then when he saw Liz Peterson – did you notice the resemblance? Liz reminded him of Alison and he acted on impulse – raping her, and then cutting her to try and ensure that she wouldn't then 'betray' him like Alison had done. He wanted to be her last sexual partner. But having done it once, he found he got something from the experience – the power, the control – and so he went looking for more victims. The escalation to cutting faces fits as well – by disfiguring the woman, he's attempting again to make sure that no more men take an interest in her. It's very worrying." she concluded, eyes fixed on Gene. "I think he could well increase it further. I think he could kill someone."

Gene nodded, grim-faced, accepting what she had said. "Sick bastard," he murmured, to no-one in particular. He took a deep breath. "Right, well, we'd better find him, hadn't we? Who's going to see Granny?"

Lambert looked keen. "I might as well call in on my way back to Nottingham," he offered. "No need for you to go all the way up there."

Gene nodded; he had expected as much. They took a few more minutes to discuss further steps, then Lambert got up to leave. To Gene's disgust, Alex waved him off with a warm smile and, "Be in touch soon, won't you?" His own farewell consisted of a curt nod and, "Get to it, then, Red Riding Hood."

* * *

Lambert's visit to Kevin Woods' grandmother did not go quite as planned. Alex took a phone call from him first thing the next morning, and then went into Gene's office to relay the news to him.

"I'm afraid Andrew didn't get very far with the gran yesterday. Sounds like she's a bit of a tough old boot; you know, the usual stuff, 'He's a good boy, you policemen are just trying to get him into trouble,' all that. She flatly denied knowing where he was. Andrew didn't believe her, but didn't want to get too heavy-handed with an eighty-year old lady.: The way the press are at the moment, they'd have a field day."

Gene looked both weary and disgusted as he took in what she had said. "Oh, for Christ's sake," he said heavily, getting to his feet, "if you want something done properly, do it yourself." He shrugged on his heavy black coat. "Come on. Get in the car."

"But – what?" Alex was shocked. He was already striding out through the squad room; she ran after him. "But Gene, it's miles away! You don't actually think - "

"I do actually think, Bolly," he responded, turning to look at her. "I've had enough of Lambert's fannying around. Come on." He turned away again.

"But - "

His face brooked no argument. "For the last time, Bollinger-Knickers. _Get in the car_."

* * *

The day was bright but cold as the bright red car headed quickly up the M1. Its occupants were largely silent; neither could help thinking back to the last time they had made that journey together. Then, Alex reflected, she had been grieving, bewildered by seeing her parents die all over again, still searching for a reason why she was here and how she might get home. She had felt alone and frightened and drifting helplessly, and Gene had taken hold of her and made her feel safe and wanted and able to face her situation. The best she had ever felt in this world. Now the possibility of going home had been taken away from her; now _this_ was home. This, here, now, was reality; but would she ever experience that wonderful feeling again? Surely, it must be possible to restore what they had had then? She wanted to do it. She _had _to do it.

Gene's face was an impenetrable mask, but behind it he too was remembering that night. How sweet she had tasted, how soft her body... but beyond that, how good it had felt to hold her, to cherish her. To be what she needed. For a brief time it had felt as though he had a purpose in life, some good he could do, beyond the perpetual cleaning the streets of scum that had always been his role. Someone special he could be. But now that seemed to have been taken away from him.

Clenching his jaw, he tried to forget all that, to enjoy the moment. At least today he had the exclusivity of her company: at least an hour, in the car, just the two of them. He glanced over at her, wondering how to break the silence. In the end he cleared his throat and started "So, er, what happened to you at New Year? Luigi's champagne not good enough for you?"

"No, no, it wasn't that," Alex was quick to reply, hoping he believed her. "I had a nice time, really, but then it all just got a bit much – I was missing my daughter..." she tailed away, unsure how to explain.

"Ah. Right." Now he looked embarrassed at having brought the subject up.

_Oh God. _She had to explain further, wanted to explain, but how? What could she tell him? Hesitantly stringing the words together, she continued, "It's, um, it's OK, though. I've seen her a couple of times since then and she's, er, she's all right. She's doing fine. But it's like I told you at Christmas. She won't be able to live with me any more."

He grunted, "I'm sorry," unable to find a better reply, though inwardly he was pleased that she was confiding in him, pleased, too, that her explanation for disappearing at New Year was innocent enough.

Now she was embarrassed, worried that by mentioning Molly she had raised painful memories of his child. "I'm so sorry about your daughter, though – thank you for telling me about her. At Christmas, I mean. I appreciate it. It must be so hard, never knowing."

"Yeah, well." Gene was sober this time and not going to let any cracks show. "Nothing to be done about it – no point in thinking about it, eh?" His face was set, impassive, but the sideways glance he shot her showed a hint of vulnerability and a warning not to probe it.

"No." She took her cue and dropped the subject, unwilling to cause him pain or, worse, to make him angry. She changed the subject. "So, er, seems like I missed all the fun at New Year, then? Did you go on Ray's little expedition to Soho?"

"No, I'd had enough by then." _Was missing you._

"Pity. You might have been able to stop Chris having that stupid tattoo."

"Wot?" He half-turned to her, raised an eyebrow, and she realised that he was ignorant of the tattoo and the whole ensuing debacle. Mentally hoping that Chris would forgive her, she launched into an explanation. Gene laughed as she finished the tale and she implored him not to tease Chris about it, trying to impress on him that she had been sworn to secrecy.

"Though I can't understand what all the fuss is about," she commented, "it's only a football team, after all."

"That's 'cos you're a bird, Bolly," he replied with amused condescension. "If you were a bloke, you'd know that Arsenal are a load of bloody poofs who are the biggest disgrace to the First Division after Man U and Liverpool."

"Yeah, yeah." She felt relaxed enough to reply with sarcasm herself now, glad that the atmosphere had relaxed between them.

They turned off the motorway and drove through countryside that might have been pretty, in the summer, but soon it disappeared as they entered the dingy environs of Corby. Everywhere looked, grey, run-down and poor. The steel-works that had given the town its livelihood cast a grimy shadow over it, but a town that had relied on steel was not doing well in a recession. As they passed the sign which officially welcomed them to the town, Gene briefly nodded towards it and commented "Welcome to Corby. Twinned with the Moon."

Alex looked at him, not understanding. "What?"

"No atmosphere," he replied, deadpan, but when she giggled in response he could not help one corner of his mouth lifting a little. It felt good to make her laugh.

She rallied and replied, "Still, they did at least give the world the trouser press," causing him to chuckle in return before trumping with, "I rest my case."

The address that Alison had given them turned out to be a small but very neat-looking terraced house in a quiet residential street. As they pulled up outside it, Alex realised that they hadn't discussed what they were going to do. "So, what's the plan?" she demanded as Gene switched off the ignition. "I mean, I don't know why you're assuming we can succeed where a bright DI like Lambert has failed. Would you like me to try a psychological technique – try to engender some sympathy for the victims, perhaps? I mean, I could - "

She was interrupted by a deep sigh and an extremely old-fashioned look. "I don't want you to do anything, Bolly. There are still some things I'm more than capable of handling on my own."

"But what - " she was still arguing as she followed him up the path to the front door.

He turned and looked at her, almost amused. "Watch and learn, Bolly. Watch and learn."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Alex got back in the car, feeling rather bemused. How on earth did he do it? For heaven's sake, _she_ was the one with the psychology degree and all the other qualifications, not to mention being thirty years furtherforward with the theory. Yet it seemed that all Gene had to do was sit on a sofa, drink a cup of tea and have a cosy little conversation about biscuits, and the initially suspicious and formidable old lady was practically eating out of his hand. In the end he had got the address out of her with little trouble: a bedsit in Shadwell, not far from the scene of the first London attack. They had parted from her on the best of terms, and now here he was, sitting beside her in the car and, she noted, looking irritatingly smug.

"See, Bolly? Nothing to it. Just a bit of old-fashioned charm required." _Wish it worked on you. _"Now, keep an eye out for a phone box."

They found one on a street corner; Gene went in and called Ray while Alex stood outside, shivering and stamping her feet, wrinkling her nose at the smell which seemed universal to all phone boxes, whatever the place or year. _Roll on mobile phones_.

Gene gave Ray the address and told him and Chris to get round there straight away. "Check it out, watch the entrance and if you see anyone that might be Woods going in or out, nick him. Otherwise, don't do anything until I get there."

As they drove at full speed back to London, Alex felt a mounting sense of excitement. They had been searching for this man for nearly three months, Notts police for the best part of a year. It had been their major investigation, occupying, it seemed, every waking hour, every particle of her intelligence. Now, at last, could they be about to catch him?

They found Ray and Chris in a quiet, shabby street of tall Victorian terraced houses. Ray indicated one a little further up the road. "That's the one. 'E rents a room on the top floor – different name, of course. We spoke to the landlady – Mrs Cook – she lives on the ground floor. Doesn't see much of him – says he keeps to himself. Thinks he's in his room as far as she knows – he doesn't go out much. Doesn't have a job or owt."

"Thanks, Ray." Gene and Alex acknowledged the information and all four of them headed towards the house. They trooped up the three cracked stone steps and through the large front door, old wood with many peeling coats of paint.

The house reminded Alex of some she had lived in as a student – separate rooms, each with an occupant, with a shared kitchenette and bathroom on each floor. The staircases and landings were gloomy and smelled of disinfectant and cabbage. Up the first set of stairs they went, the wide ones which would have been impressive when the house was first built, and then the narrower ones to the top floor, the poky little rooms which would originally have been servants' quarters. The anticipation was almost palpable among the four of them – this collar really mattered.

Four doors opened off the landing on the top floor. Mrs Cook, who had wheezed her way up the stairs behind them, indicated one on the right, at the back. "That's the one."

Gene knocked loudly on the door and waited a few moments, but there was no reply. He rapped again, smartly, shouting "Open up! Police!"

Again they waited, Alex's heart thumping in her chest – was he here? Gene stepped back and nodded to Ray. "Break the door down."

"'Ere, no need for that!" Mrs Cook was indignant at the thought of any damage to her property. "I've got the key 'ere." She pushed through them and unlocked the door; Gene pushed it open.

The room that met their eyes was small and dingy: plain walls with grubby marks on them, a threadbare rug covering only a little of the lino on the floor. The only furnishings were a bedstead, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, all of which looked old and battered. The room was cold and a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. However, the most striking thing about the room was its complete emptiness. Not only was there no-one there, but the room bore no sign of habitation: no bedclothes, no personal possessions of any sort. As they stood there taking it in, Mrs Cook was the first to voice her thoughts.

"Well I never! 'E's done a runner! Taken all of 'is stuff and scarpered... Oh! And the bugger owes me two weeks' rent as well! Now I come to think of it, I ain't seen 'im going in and out for two or three days, but I never gave it no thought... Ooh, the sneaky bastard! I'll 'ave 'im, I tell you, I'll 'ave 'im!"

The detectives moved into the room, as if in a trance: the situation seemed almost unreal, after all the build-up. The drawers banged as Ray opened them one by one; they were all empty. Gene and Alex glanced around the room as Chris crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Inside, a few bare wire coat-hangers jingled disconsolately.

"Taken every bloody thing," murmured Ray, mostly to himself. Alex shook herself out of her reverie. "We don't know that," she said firmly, "look everywhere, he might have left something."

There were not many places to look and they had almost given up, but then Chris, flat on his belly trying to see under the wardrobe, said "Hang on a minute – what's this?" Stretching out his arm as far as it would go, he just managed to get something in his fingers; he pulled it out and held it aloft in the dim light. It was a roll of duct tape.

Ray and Chris's eyes flickered between Alex and Gene, realising the significance but uncertain how to proceed. "What now, Guv?"

* * *

A lot of drinking went on in Luigi's that evening. The team did not know whether to celebrate the recent breakthroughs or drown their sorrows over the day's frustrating set-back. In the end they did both, and things got increasingly raucous as the evening wore on. In withdrawing slightly to a place of relative quiet, Alex and Gene found that for the first time in months, they were sharing the corner table.

Neither was particularly sober, and though they tried to discuss the case, the conversation became increasingly slow and stupefied, occasionally petering out altogether. Still, any lulls were filled by whooping or ranting from the next table, and they just enjoyed sitting in the semi-darkness, feeling warm and comfortable together.

Eventually, late in the evening, Gene roused himself slightly as a thought seemed to occur to him. "An' I'll tell you another thing, Bolly," he slurred, jabbing the table with his forefinger for extra emphasis, "never mind the duct tape. 'S the penknife you want to think about. Something funny about that, using a penknife."

Alex tilted her head and looked at him through slightly unfocused eyes. "Whaddya mean?"

"Villains don't use penknives. Lock-knives, something like that, yeah, but not a penknife. If 'e's using one, 'e's got a reason for it. Some of your psychological bollocks, I reckon." He sniffed and took another drink.

Alex considered this, sipping her own wine. After a moment she shook her head decisively. "No, you're wrong, Gene. No psychology this time. S'just a small knife, easy to carry, easy to conceal – and it doesn't arouse anyone's suspicions if they do see it. Not like something else would. Simple." She raised her eyebrows.

Gene looked at her dispassionately. "You're a bird, Bolly," he replied. "Birds don't know anything about knives. 'S wrong, I'm telling you."

Alex was too drunk to be annoyed, but she gave argument anyway. "Look, just because I'm a 'bird' - "

He held up his hands to silence her. "Hush. Look, say what you will… if that penknife doesn't turn out to be significant, I'll show my arse at the next Metropolitan Police Annual Dinner and Dance."

She giggled at that and got an amused smile in response. With a dimple, she noticed. _Bastard. _Why did he have to be so attractive? He noticed her looking at his mouth and his gaze dropped to hers, before flickering back to her eyes. His expression made her feel as though her stomach had turned to liquid. For a moment they leant imperceptibly towards one another; then somewhere in the back of her brain, common sense kicked in. _Not when you're both this drunk. _With an effort she wrenched herself away and stood up, swaying.

"I'd better go to bed," she mumbled, taking her jacket from the back of the chair. Slowly, deliberately, she made her way up the stairs to her flat. Gene sat and watched her go, regretful.

* * *

The next day he was as matter-of fact as ever and she wondered if she'd imagined it. Just a moment's fleeting attraction, she could not be sure it had ever been there – on his behalf, at least. She knew what she had felt.

In the days that followed, the whole team became increasingly dispirited and frustrated. Armed with the photos of Woods provided by Alison, they went out scouring the local rented accommodation, plus the doss-houses and night-shelters in case Woods had taken to sleeping rough. They also watched the DHSS office where he had signed on, but Woods seemed to have realised that they were getting too close, and hid himself well. Try as they might, they could not find him.

After one such depressing day, Alex found herself alone, making a cup of tea in the small CID kitchen. She had spent hours investigating a possible sighting of Woods around the Petticoat Lane area, but when she had eventually tracked down the homeless man who had been reported, he turned out to be someone else entirely, and was vouched for as a regular by the Salvation Army officer at the local shelter. She was tired, cold and her feet ached, and she felt ready to give up. She barely looked round when she heard footsteps and Gene entered the kitchen behind her.

"Any luck today, Bolly?"

"No. Nothing," she sighed. "Nothing at all. He seems to have completely disappeared." Her voice was flat and drained.

Gene took in the bowed head, the rounded shoulders. Her whole stance said that she was defeated. He couldn't bear to see her like that. Unconsciously he moved closer, to stand behind her. "Can't have disappeared, Bolls. We'll get him yet, you'll see. Just a matter of time."

The low rumble of his voice was comforting; not knowing what she was doing she leant back against him, drawing strength from his solid warmth. He in turn could not help but drop his head, nuzzling into the hair behind her ear, breathing in her sweet scent… For a long moment they stood, drawing physical comfort from one another, and then the sound of voices just beyond the partition wall roused them and they jerked apart, embarrassed. Gene coughed while Alex gabbled, "Yes, of course, I'm sure you're right," and the connection was broken.

* * *

Two weeks after the unsuccessful raid on Woods' lodgings, Alex ran into Evan in a corridor in the police station. She had had another frustrating day: long conversations with the beat police in Shadwell had turned up nothing new, and Gene had been out at meetings all day. She welcomed the sight of a familiar face, and did not take much persuading to meet him for a drink after work. They met at Luigi's and sat at the other side of the bar from the CID crowd, catching up on one another's news. It made an enjoyable change from the disconsolate evenings she had shared with her colleagues lately.

Eventually Evan said "Well, I'd better go and pick up _my _Alex. She's been round at her friend Hettie's for tea."

Alex's face lit up, beaming. "_I _remember Hettie! Ah, erm, at least, that is to say," she hastily corrected herself, seeing Evan's slightly puzzled expression, "I remember you telling me about her. Yes, erm – Alex's best friend, isn't she?"

"That's right," Evan smiled, comfortable once more. "I'm so glad she's got someone like that – it must help, I'm sure…"

"Yes, of course," Alex hastened to reassure him. It _had _helped, she remembered, as much as anything could – the chance to go round to her friend's house, listen to tapes, whisper secrets and just behave like a normal child for once. A child whose parents had not just been blown up.

When Gene came down into the bar, his eyes scanned the room and immediately took in Alex with Evan, smiling and talking animatedly. He felt an involuntary surge of jealousy, but swallowed it, got himself a drink and went over to join the CID bunch. Ten minutes later though, when Evan left and Alex joined them, he could not help grunting, "Got yourself a date, then?"

"Don't be silly. We were just catching up with each other," she replied, slightly wrong-footed. Gene was coming over as hostile, jealous even, but why be jealous when most of the time he no longer seemed interested? There had been that incident in the kitchen, or had that just been her imagination again? She sighed, twirling the stem of her wine-glass between her fingers as she tried to work it out.

Gene watched her, thoughts racing round his mind. That Evan bloke kept cropping up, like a bad penny, and she always seemed pleased to see him. Then there was Lambert – he'd watched him, all over her like the wasps on his mam's treacle tart, and though she didn't exactly seem to be encouraging him, she wasn't discouraging him either. And now it was the first week in February and Valentine's Day was fast approaching – already the shops were full of tat, red-and-white bunting and big pink satin hearts and glassy-eyed teddy bears and such, wherever he looked. It made him want to vomit, but it might make someone else take action. Next to him he could hear Shaz teasing Chris, trying to wheedle out of him the surprise destination for their Valentine's Day date. No; if he didn't act soon, Gene realised, some other bloke would ask her out, probably for Valentine's, and she'd go, and he'd have missed his chance.

Could he risk it? Risk the humiliation, the rejection if she said no? How would they continue to work together if the embarrassment of a turned-down date stood between them? Well, he reasoned, it couldn't be any worse than what had already happened, and they seemed to have got over that, more or less. And the thought of seeing her with someone else, laughing at some other bloke's jokes, wrapping herself around him… he felt sickened by the thought. Nothing could be worse than that. He'd have to do it. Anyway, there had been a couple of moments lately when he'd thought there was something there... she might say yes.

Not Valentine's Day, though – it was too obvious, too clichéd, and there was far too much riding on it. Too many unspoken expectations. There was still one weekend before that, though – this coming Saturday. Yes, that would do.

Keen to get out of earshot of the rest of the team, he followed her the next time she went to the bar, leant on it next to her as she waited to be served, and harrumphed by way of opening. "Ahem, you know, er. I still owe you a sole."

"What?" She turned to him, eyes wide, taken by surprise.

"Dover sole, you remember. Dinner. Last autumn. I promised."

She did remember. His down-played, self-conscious invitation to her in the kitchen; her surprised acceptance. And then all the trouble with Gil Hollis: Gene's suspension, their furious row. "Shall we postpone dinner?" he had spat at her across the roof of the Quattro. After they had made up, she _had_ had dinner with him, here in Luigi's on that night when she had been so sure that she was going home… but it was not the 'somewhere posh' he had originally offered, she realised, not what he had first had in mind.

"Yes, er – I suppose you do," she stammered, mind still processing everything. What had made him think of it again, after all this time?

"Listen. Luigi's cousin," he was continuing, voice low, eyes only glancing at her, looking as uncomfortable as he had done the first time, "'e's got this fish restaurant in Drury Lane. Nice place, really classy. Saturday night, what do you say?" His eyes met hers for a split second and she saw the mute appeal in them before he looked away.

"Oh, er, right. Yes, sounds lovely. Yes, why not?" Her answer became gradually more confident as the idea sank in.

"Good. Right, that's, er – that's settled." He gave a small nod, as if to confirm the arrangement.

As Alex carried her drink back to the table, Gene slid along the bar to Luigi and leant over it towards him. "Listen, Luigi. You know that restaurant of your cousin's you told me about? I need a table for two, Saturday night."

"Saturday night?" repeated Luigi in disbelief, spreading his hands wide. "Signor Hunt, is not possible. Is what, Thursday, today, already? 'E will be booked up; is very popular, you know?"

Gene leant further across the bar so that he was nose to nose with Luigi, only with difficulty restraining himself from grabbing the Italian's lapels. "Listen," he hissed, eyes narrowed, "if you don't get me a table for this Saturday night, I will come around that bar and personally make you eat a plateful of those cardboard-flavoured ball-bearings that you call gnocchi! Got it?"

Luigi gave him his most world-weary expression. If it had been anyone else he would have told them to forget it, but CID were his most regular, if most disruptive, customers. Much more important than that, however, he had been observing what had just gone on between Evan, Alex and Gene. Perhaps the big policeman had finally got his act together with regard to the lovely signorina, and if that were the case, Luigi wanted to give them every encouragement possible. He sighed.

"I do my best, Mr Hunt. I speak to my cousin, OK? I try my best for you."

"Make sure you do, Luigi," growled Gene, murder in his eyes.

Meanwhile at the table, Alex was sitting somewhat dazed, still trying to take it in. After all this time, after she had been almost sure that he was no longer interested, it had actually happened. He had asked her out. Dinner. A date with Gene Hunt.


	14. Back To The Fairytale

**Profound apologies for how long it has taken me to get this chapter out - Christmas, snow, and other circumstances intervened. More than ever I must thank grainweevil, louella and RedSkyAtNight, all of whom helped tremendously with the development and execution of this chapter - your time and patience are much appreciated, ladies.**

**Thanks so much to all of you who are still reading - I hope this chapter has been worth the wait. As always, I love to hear what you think.**

Alex awoke on Saturday morning a woman with a mission. The night before she had decided that really, she couldn't go out for dinner in anything that she might wear for work: she needed a new dress. Wrapping herself up as protection against the snow which still lay in the streets, grimy now, she headed for the West End.

It took an hour's purposeful browsing but she found it: the perfect dress. It was knee-length, pewter in colour, made from a shimmering, gauzy fabric and cut on the cross so that it clung flatteringly to all her curves. The bodice was decorated with tiny black beads. She loved it immediately and would have bought it whatever the cost; she was delighted to find that it was half-price in the New Year sale. Encouraged by this saving, she splashed out on a black wrap of softest lambswool to go over it, and then treated herself to a new lipstick. Lastly she bought a couple of new pairs of stockings. She had a feeling that when it came to women's undergarments, Gene's taste would veer towards the traditional.

Pleased with her purchases, she headed back to the Tube station, laden with bulging carrier bags. Pushing through the crowds on Oxford Street, she had to step aside to make way for three girls, arm-in-arm, going the other way; with a jolt she realised that it was Molly and two of her friends, out on a shopping spree. They looked vibrantly alive, cheeks glowing, all giggling together at some shared secret joke. Alex could not resist turning round and surreptitiously following, though all the while she was wondering how soon it would be before they faded from sight. She knew what to expect now.

Alex could not keep from beaming as she followed her excited daughter along the road, watching as Molly and her friends stopped to point and exclaim over things in various shop windows. To her delight, Molly looked truly carefree, no shadow hanging over her, at least not today as she enjoyed herself with her friends. After a couple of minutes she heard a small, tinny burst of music; it was so long since she had heard one, that it took her a few moments to realise that it was a mobile phone ringtone. She heard Molly say "Hang on a minute" and start fishing in her bag, then she pulled out her phone – an incongruous sight in a 1982 street, but one that was unobserved by the hordes of other shoppers hurrying past – and answered "Hello, Dad."

Alex reacted with the instant, irrational stab of annoyance that the thought of her ex-husband always triggered, but she tried to swallow it down and listened intently to the rest of the one-sided conversation: "Yes, Dad, of course I'm OK" – here Molly rolled her eyes expressively at her two companions – "Yes, I'm with Sophie and Tanya… About an hour, I should think… OK, see you then... Love you too... Bye." Molly put the phone back in her bag and turned away, once more linking arms with her friends. Alex could hear her talking to them as they moved away, but then, just as she had known they would, the whole group faded from sight and she was left staring at an empty space which was quickly filled with bustling shoppers.

Slowly, Alex retraced her steps to the Tube station, reflecting on what she had seen. Molly had been very small when her parents split up, and for a while Alex had fought what felt like a futile battle, insisting for her daughter's sake that she still had regular contact with her father, even when he did not seem interested. But as Molly had grown older she had forged a genuine relationship with Peter, and though his behaviour was still often what Alex considered to be selfish and careless, Molly herself had kept up the contact, and had proved to be a lot more charitable and tolerant towards him than Alex had ever been able to be. Since he had met his Canadian girlfriend, he had been around less often, but he and Molly still kept in touch via phone and e-mail. Often Alex had felt exasperated, even resentful, at the extent to which the girl exonerated her father, but now, she realised, it brought her reassurance. She was relieved to know that Molly still had a good relationship with her remaining parent; moreover, that he was still taking an active part in seeing her, hopefully reducing the burden on Evan of caring for her. The whole experience, she mused as she sat on the crowded Tube train, could have been upsetting, but instead it was positive. Molly seemed to be getting on with her life, and in some intangible way, Alex now felt free to get on with her own.

* * *

Gene had felt a wave of tremendous relief as Luigi sidled up to him on Friday evening and murmured "You are lucky, Signor Hunt. _Very _lucky. A cancellation. Seven-thirty." On Saturday morning he too ventured forth, not to the West End but to his local shopping centre, with errands in mind.

He passed the dry cleaners, making a mental note to pick up his best suit on the way back. Firstly though, he had a haircut, then bought a new white shirt. Not that either were anything to do with the date, he told himself; he had been meaning to do both for some time. Next he turned towards Underwoods the Chemist.

A couple of days previously he had overheard Chris and Shaz teasing Ray, in the aftermath of his latest failed date, about how old-fashioned his aftershave was. It was a concept that had never really occurred to Gene before, but it gave him pause for thought. A critical eye cast over his own toiletries shelf this morning had revealed that everything there looked a bit tired. A bit… dated. Distinctly 1970s. Perhaps, he reflected, it was time to adopt something more modern. He was already aware of how much older he was than Alex, without using scent to emphasise the fact any further. _Not that this is for her benefit, of course_, he hastened to remind himself, heading towards the perfumerie counter.

A bewildering array of bottles and sprays met his eyes; the choice was such that he was immediately tempted to go for another bottle of Brut and hang the fact that it was old-fashioned. However, he steeled himself and, selecting a bottle at random, pulled the top off and took a cautious sniff.

"Can I help you, sir?" _Shit. _Too late he realised that he had been ambushed by one of the painted harpies who staffed the counter. She cracked a fake smile in the thick foundation that coated her face, and raised her immaculately-drawn eyebrows. "What kind of thing are you looking for?"

"Uh… aftershave…" he grunted; it was hardly eloquent, but it didn't matter as she wasn't listening anyway.

"May I recommend this? It's the latest from Yves Saint Laurent," she asked brightly, and before he knew what she was doing, she had seized his left wrist and enveloped it in a spray of scent from a bottle she held in her hand.

"Gerroff me, you dozy cow!" Gene snatched his arm away, glowering, and coughed as the scent reached him. "Jesus! That smells like a tart's parlour!"

The woman's eyes registered slight shock but she went on seamlessly, unperturbed. "How about this? It's by Calvin Klein, just out." A cloud of fragrance smothered his other arm.

"Christ! What's that, fly spray?" Gene waved a hand in front of his face, trying to disperse the pungent mist. "And I'm not buying anything produced by some poncey designer who makes jeans too tight and underpants too loose!"

Even the harpy could sense that she was losing ground here. Hurriedly she grabbed another bottle and, wisely, decided not to spray him but merely held it up for him to smell. "What about this, sir? Aramis – it's a classic. Timeless and truly masculine."

Gene sniffed at it gingerly. _A classic. _He liked the sound of that. _Timeless and masculine _wasn't bad either. And it actually didn't smell at all bad, at least not compared to the two she'd just drenched him in. Yes. Aramis. That would do. He barked acceptance and slapped a note down on the counter, as the woman put an unopened bottle in a bag and handed it to him with another face-cracking smile.

The decision made, Gene stalked away and went to get more shaving foam. Often these days he used an electric shaver, but he knew that for this evening, nothing but a wet shave would do. _The things I do for that bloody woman... _Lastly, he headed for the pharmacy counter. If this evening was not to end up a complete shambles like last time, there was something else he needed to buy.

* * *

Alex spent the afternoon immersed in the minutiae of preparation. Every inch of skin was buffed, exfoliated and moisturised, every stray hair shaved or plucked. She cleaned her teeth, styled her hair and painted her nails. All the while an ironic refrain kept going round in her head: a line from _Bridget Jones' Diary. _How did it go? 'Being a woman is worse than being a farmer, there is so much crop-spraying and harvesting to be done.' She smiled at the thought.

The rational part of her brain could not help asking herself why she was going to all this trouble. After all, in the past seven months Gene had seen her in most states of dress and undress, with and without makeup, polished and poised but also tired, unkempt, her face drenched in sweat or blotched with tears. On the one previous occasion when he had taken her to bed, she had been just as she was after a day's work, totally unprepared, and he hadn't seemed to mind… Far from it, in fact… God, if she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands, his mouth on her skin… She shook herself and tried not to get too carried away. There was no guarantee that anything like that would happen tonight. The messages she'd got from him recently had been mixed… confusing. She had no doubt about her own willingness to reveal everything to him, however. She wanted to make that connection again.

Admitting that the real reason she was going to such lengths was for her own self-esteem, she revelled in the preparations, dressing carefully and painstakingly. First, a classic underwear set of bra, knickers and suspender belt in black lace; then stockings, the new dress, and strappy black high-heeled shoes. She prayed that Gene would be able to park near enough to the restaurant for her not to get snow or slush inside them. Next came her make-up: subtle smokiness around the eyes, deep red lipstick; and jewellery, silver and black. When she had put the finishing touches to her hair, there was nothing to do but wait, feeling increasingly nervous and wondering why she should do so, when Gene was hardly a stranger: over the last seven months she had spent most of her waking hours with him. But tonight, it felt as though there was a lot at stake.

When the knock finally came and she opened the door to him, what she saw almost took her breath away. Familiar he might be, but tonight he looked different. She took in the haircut, the best suit, the crisp white shirt, and a tie which, for him, was almost tasteful. She'd forgotten he could look this good. She was almost salivating at the sight. _Stop it, Alex. _As he moved past her she noticed his skin: it would never be smooth, but tonight it looked temptingly soft, the product of what she guessed to be a very thorough wet shave. It was all she could do not to reach out and stroke it. _Alex, for Christ's sake. _And then, as a wicked afterthought: _Later. _

She had not managed to say much of coherence during this time, but luckily her appearance seemed to have deprived him of speech to much the same extent. She moved aside and gestured for him to come in; as he moved past her, a waft of Aramis met her nostrils. That was a surprise – for a moment she felt disappointed, she had grown fond of his familiar scent. On reflection, though, it really wasn't bad, and although it was very 1980s, somehow also it was very _him_. She smiled.

"Wot?" he asked suspiciously, noticing her expression.

"Nothing. You've made an effort, that's all, Mr Hunt." She raised an eyebrow. "Very nice."

"Huh," he grunted, sounding embarrassed. He had been feeling uncomfortable, annoyed with himself for having gone to all this effort over a woman, but as soon as he saw her, he was glad that he had. She looked unbelievable, gorgeous, and he had no words to tell her just how good. None of the lines he would use on other women sounded right, because she was something else altogether. Instead he just said "Shall we go, then?" It was gruff, almost a bark, but nevertheless she smiled as she took his arm, and he escorted her down the stairs.

* * *

The restaurant was tiny and intimate, seating no more than a dozen couples. Snow-white linen covered the tables and a small vase of orange-blossom stood on each. Silverware and crystal sparkled in the perfect lighting – subdued, but not gloomy – and delicate piano music tinkled in the background. The whole place seemed suffused with a warm glow, infinitely attractive and inviting on a cold February night. Gene felt slightly ill-at-ease, but was secretly elated when Alex looked around, eyes shining, and murmured, "Gene, it's beautiful. Thank you."

One waiter took their coats, another escorted them to their table and pulled out Alex's chair for her, while yet another handed them their menus. Alex was amazed at the quality of the service – attentive, deferential, and yet totally unobtrusive. Gene registered with resignation just how much all this perfection was going to cost him. He hoped it was worth it.

Cousin Enzo was easy to spot as the maitre d', but both of them would have known him anywhere. He was slimmer than Luigi and had more hair, but the same moustache, and an even more lugubrious and doleful expression. Alex could not help giggling at him, which in turn gave Gene occasion to smile. _So far, so good_.

Alex scanned the menu and her mouth watered for the second time that evening. This was definitely a cut above Luigi's. She chose a mixed seafood starter, followed, as predicted, by Dover sole. It was perfectly cooked and she enjoyed every mouthful. As a rule, Gene didn't consider fish to be worth eating unless it was dipped in batter and deep fried, but he ordered a salmon steak and made the best of it.

As they waited for the food to arrive, he leaned forward and asked, "So, Bolly, been 'ere before? Somewhere like this'd be right up your street, I imagine." His tone was teasing, to hide a genuine insecurity.

Alex responded in kind, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "No, actually." She sighed, becoming became slightly more serious. "Look, I know you think I'm some sort of caviar-guzzling champagne socialist, but really, it's not like that. All my time and effort goes – went - into my career and bringing up my daughter. There's never been a lot left over for the social whirl."

He grunted, acknowledging the truth in what she said. She was a grafter, he'd give her that. Smiling slightly, she retaliated with, "In any case, I don't think you're such a stranger to all this as you'd like to make out. It can't be all cloth caps and black pudding up in Manchester. I reckon you've had your share of good living." Her voice was light, but underneath was genuine curiosity. She wanted to know more about his past.

He sniffed, slightly rueful at her accuracy. While his upbringing had been solidly respectable working-class, being a DCI had opened doors: it had brought good pay, allowing him to treat the missus from time to time, and occasional perks of more dubious kinds, of which he had taken full advantage. Initially uneasy at some of the surroundings in which he found himself, he'd quickly learnt that no matter how up-market a place might be, swaggering into it as if you owned it generally did the trick. Just like it did everywhere else.

"Well, maybe", he admitted. He glanced around. "There's nowhere like this in Manchester, though. Classiest place up there is the dining room of the Midland Hotel, but the service isn't a patch on this. Half the time, your soup could freeze over before it got to you." He was relieved when she laughed in response.

As they ate, Alex's attention was drawn by a couple to their right. She observed them covertly for a minute or two, then pointed them out to Gene in an undertone. "Look at that pair of lovebirds. Can't keep their eyes or their hands off each other."

Gene followed her glance and after a moment or two, agreed. "Can't have known each other long," he remarked. "Them, though" – he nodded towards a couple seated near the door – "they've been married for years."

Alex looked and had to agree with him: the couple in question had the easy matter-of-factness which indicated a long and stable relationship. Gene reflected that not so long ago, he would have followed his verdict with the comment "Poor sod." But now? He wasn't so sure. The bloke by the door looked happy enough.

Alex noticed his moment of abstraction. "What?"

"Nothing." He quickly directed her attention to a young man and woman at the table in the corner. "Noticed him, though?"

"No, what about him?" Alex scanned the young man. "Looks a bit nervous."

"More than a bit, and every two minutes his hand goes to his jacket pocket. Either he's got a ring in there and he's trying to work up the courage to propose, or he's worried there's not enough money in his wallet for the bill."

Despite herself, Alex was impressed. "Well, it's not Valentine's till next weekend," she reasoned, warming to the game. "I should think he'd wait until then to propose, don't you? And it's his inside pocket he keeps checking – more likely to be the wallet." She was enjoying herself now, and nodded at a couple by the window. "What about those two, then?"

Gene observed for a minute and replied, "That's easy, Bolly. First date and he's hoping to get lucky tonight." _Like me. Shit, that was a tactless thing to say. _Luckily for Gene, Alex was too surprised by Gene's insight to notice the implications of what he'd said. He might not have been trained in interpreting body language as she had, but his instincts seemed to be spot on, and they continued the game, assessing all the diners in the room and finding themselves in almost total agreement about them.

_And what about us, Gene? What kind of couple are we?_ As she finished her sole and laid down her knife and fork, the question hung in Alex's mind, begging to be asked, but she could not find the courage to do it. She wanted so much to end the ambivalence, to know how he felt, but what if she had got it wrong? What if he laughed at her, poured scorn on the idea of them being a couple? She could not face the idea, did not want to spoil this beautiful evening in this perfect place by risking it, and so fear kept her silent.

Gene watched her, noting the lull in the conversation. She was displaying signs of abstraction: pleating her napkin, twirling the stem of her glass, tracing patterns in the tablecloth with her fingernail. _Shit. What have I done wrong? _She'd seemed to be having a good time: liked the place, enjoyed the food, she'd even laughed at his jokes. Now he appeared to be losing her, and he didn't have the faintest idea why, or what to do about it. His heart sank as his hopes for the evening started to evaporate. Fortunately, the awkward silence was broken by the arrival of the waiter with the dessert menu.

Alex hadn't meant to have dessert, but Enzo's home-made ices were too tempting to resist. Anyway, hadn't Gene said something about liking a woman with a good appetite? So she blissfully sucked tiramisu-flavoured ice-cream off the spoon, while he sipped his coffee, eyes narrowed, hoping she wouldn't notice quite how much he was enjoying watching her.

Eventually Gene paid and they left the restaurant. Alex was unsure whether or not to take his arm again as they walked the short distance back to the car. The atmosphere had changed partway through the evening and now she felt unable to read him. Chewing her lip, she decided against it. He held the door open for her to get in – such a difference, she reflected ruefully, from when they were working, all chivalry forgotten as they flung themselves in and out of it – and she was hoping for a small touch on her back or her arm, but it didn't come.

They spoke little on the way home, each tense and preoccupied. Gene had the suspicion that he had blown it, although he was buggered if he could work out why. It had seemed to be going well, but then she'd gone all quiet, and that was never a good sign with women. Inwardly he resigned himself to the prospect of a peck on the cheek and a lonely drive back to his own flat, there to recreate her image in his mind and satisfy himself in private. Meanwhile Alex felt as taut as a bow-string, anxious, frustrated that they seemed to have made no progress. This was their best chance at re-establishing the bond, the connection, and she felt as though it was slipping away. Could she find the courage to act?

When he drew up a little way past Luigi's and turned the ignition off, Alex's heart pounded in her throat as she turned to him, and she had to swallow before she could speak. _Do something, Alex. You can't let this chance go. You've got to do something._

"Thank you, Gene, I... I had a lovely evening."

_Right, that's that, then... _He took the words for the brush-off that he expected, but then she leaned towards him, whispered his name again, and kissed him.

He responded with aching gentleness, hardly daring to believe it, mouth slowly taking hers, pulling at her lower lip. He traced her mouth with his tongue and the sensation made her quiver with longing; readily she opened to him, answering his tongue with her own, tasting wine and coffee. Emboldened, he deepened the kiss, one hand at the back of her head, the other stealing to the small of her back, drawing her towards him, as much as was possible in the cramped confines of the car. Lost in the taste and the smell and the feel of him, Alex forgot everything else, her stomach already turning liquid as her body responded to his. Eventually she pulled back a little, panting slightly, and murmured, "Would you like to come in?"

He was glad that she was honest, not giving him any crap about coffee. He kissed her again, bolder now, more hungrily, before breaking off and simply answering, "Yes."

And once he had said it, once the uncertainty was out of the way and they each knew what the other one wanted, the atmosphere changed, somehow relaxed, and the world began to take on an odd, dream-like quality. As they walked up the stairs and through her flat, as they kissed and touched and began to undress one another, it was as if everything unfolded at its own pace, unrushed, almost unreal. He wanted her so much, wanted to touch her, taste her, was already hard for her; but at the same time there was no hurry, none at all, and he could take his time and savour every magical moment.

In her bedroom, she slipped off her shoes; his hands moved down over her body, taking the wrap from her shoulders, exploring every curve. He kissed below her ear and down her neck, causing delicious shivers, and she arched backwards to allow him more access. Her eyes closed in abandonment, only to snap open as he grumbled, "Where the bloody hell does this dress undo?"

"Oh – sorry," she grinned, guiding his hand to the zip down the side-seam. He pulled it down and slipped his hand inside, exploring her waist, her bottom, growling with pleasure as he found the suspender belt. Together they pulled the dress up and over her head, and his breath hissed in appreciation at the sight of her perfect figure, the stuff of pure fantasy in her black bra and stockings. The words he hadn't been able to say before came easily now: "Christ, Bolly, you're beautiful… so beautiful…" as his hands mapped her, mouth ghosting over her skin.

He set every nerve-ending tingling: she could feel her body readying itself, nipples tightening, a pulse beating between her legs. She wanted more, wanted to feel his skin on hers… "Not fair. You're still dressed," she murmured, hands moving to take off his tie, unbutton his shirt. Taking his cue from her, he tore at his clothes and stood before her naked, groaning with pleasure as her hands roamed him, stroking the soft skin of his chest, his belly, his hips. Dropping to her knees she caressed his hard length; he gasped as he felt her hot breath, as she kissed his cock, swirled her tongue around the tip. She took him in her mouth, sucking, savouring his taste and he almost cried out, before taking her hands and pulling her to her feet again, muttering, "Later. Plenty of time for that."

Almost reverently he removed her bra, cradling her breasts in his hands. She lay back on the bed, propped up on the pillows, and he lay with her and began to work down from her neck again, making her squeal as he kissed a sensitive spot just below her ear. The sensation triggered a memory, and she murmured, "Gene?"

"Hmmmh?"

"Could you try not to leave me covered in bites this time?"

He glanced up quickly, but she didn't look at all cross with him.

"Thought you said you liked it." He kissed his way gently down her collar-bone.

"I do. But they take…_aaaahhhh_...days to go away, and I've only got ..._ooohhhh_... one high-necked blouse..." It was getting difficult to stay coherent under the onslaught of kisses.

"Huh. I'll try then." His mouth moved lower. "But I'll not be responsible for my actions if you start making those squeaking noises."

"What?" She giggled. "Gene Hunt, I do _not _make squeaking noises!"

"Bloody do," he growled from somewhere near her left breast. He kissed the plump flesh of the underside, grazing his teeth over it, making her gasp and wriggle. As he took her nipple into his mouth she let out an involuntary yelp, and he smiled against her flesh. "See?" he countered.

"Can't help it," she replied breathlessly, almost delirious with what he was doing to her. He transferred his attentions to the other breast. "Oh, God, Gene, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Tantalising, he moved over her body, his mouth and hands making her ever more aroused. Gently he removed her knickers and kissed the inside of her thighs, above her stocking tops, before moving to her very centre, wet now and aching for him, kissing, licking, making her moan uncontrollably. Remembering, he moved up her body again, kissed her gently on the mouth and muttered, "Moment," before sitting on the edge of the bed to rummage in his jacket pocket.

When she saw the packet of condoms she smiled and looked a bit bashful. "I've got some too."

He looked at her in surprise, then laughed. "Tart," he answered with deep affection, and opened the packet.

He was about to put it on but she said, "Here, let me," took it and gently smoothed it over him, hands stroking down his hard shaft, taking his breath away again. He hated condoms but if she was going to do that every time, it might not be so bad.

He lay next to her, once more kissing her neck, her breasts, exploring her womanhood with his fingers, dipping in and out, driving her almost wild. He moved over her, ready to enter, but something made him hold back. He had to know. Drawing back to look at her face, he softly asked, "Alex? Are you sure?"

She could barely think, she wanted him inside her so badly. "Yes, Gene, yes," she whispered; then, seeing him still hesitate, she looked straight into his eyes and said the words that were like balm to his soul. "Gene, I need you."

It was what he needed to hear. His mouth captured hers with passion and he thrust deep inside her, making her shriek, drawing up her knees and wrapping her legs round him, desperate to take him fully. For a long moment they lay still, finally joined, a feeling like electricity coursing through them; then he raised up and began to move inside her, finding a rhythm, steadily working the friction on the tiny sensitive spot deep inside her until she thought she would burst. Knowing that she needed more, she arched her hips, reaching her hand down to find her clit. A few deft strokes and she came, spasming around him, crying out in pleasure, mind exploding, body in rhapsody. He thrust once, twice more and followed her over the edge, emptying into her, giving her all of him.

When he could move again, he rolled her very gently onto her side before slipping out of her, still holding her gaze, stroking her hair. He went to get up and she thought he was leaving: with an anxious face she blurted, "Don't go," before realising he was only disposing of the condom.

He leaned over and kissed her again. "I'm not going anywhere unless you say so."

She gave a smile of embarrassed relief as he wandered off to the bathroom.

Dazedly she took off the suspender belt and stockings, but as she began to come down from the high, reality crept back in, and with it, doubt. When he returned and lay next to her, pulling the covers over them both, he saw that she looked worried and slightly guarded. He peered into her face, uncertain, trying to read her. "All right, Bolly?"

"Gene..." She didn't quite meet his eye. "You know in December? After the party?"

"Oh, bloody hell. Yes."

"You said you came upstairs for a shag." Her voice was small. "Was that it, then? Was that all you wanted?" Suddenly her gaze met his, direct. "Is that all this is?"

He stared at her, desperate to reassure her yet still unable to find words to acknowledge his feelings. In the end he replied gruffly, "Well, that depends on you, doesn't it?"

"Me? Does it?" It wasn't the answer she had expected.

He gave a small nod. "Ball's in your court."

"Meaning....?"

"Meaning, I know what I want. But I don't know about you. What you want." His voice was low, hypnotic, eyes boring into her. "Tell me, Bolly."

She felt afraid, backed into a corner, but perhaps this was the moment to be honest. The fencing around each other, the misunderstandings, had gone on for far too long. Her mind flashed back to the last time they had lain like this. Biting her lip, she asked, "Do you remember that morning in Nottingham?"

His eyes glinted, almost dangerously. "I'm not likely to forget it."

She looked down, frowning as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "Well... it felt fantastic, that morning. So right, so simple... you and me, together... blissful." She swallowed, raising her eyes to his as she whispered the last word. "That's what I want, Gene. More than anything else in the world." As he continued to stare at her she whispered, "Do you... do you think we could ever get back there?"

"Back to Nottingham? Easy, straight up the M1." The words were out of his mouth before he could check them, but then he saw her tight smile, belied by the pain in her eyes as she registered his flippancy. He saw her withdrawing, physically and emotionally, and realised what he had done. Desperately he reached out, his arm checking her, finally forced into telling her how he felt.

"No – listen – I didn't mean it -" There was anguish in his eyes as he sought to convince her. More quietly, but intense, he continued, "Listen, that whole night in Nottingham... it was amazing. Bloody fantastic." A moment's silence. "I felt the same as you, Bolly. You and me. It felt right."

Doubtfully she looked at him, hoping, wanting to believe him, still wary of being hurt. Drawing her nearer, he continued, his voice a low rumble. "Look, that night after the party... I never wanted 'just a shag', Bolly. Well, not since a long time before that, anyway. It's just that, at that precise moment, it was quite high on my list of priorities."

She laughed and finally relaxed, tears of relief springing to her eyes as she dared to believe him. He kissed them away and she snuggled into him, at last feeling the warmth, the comfort as she lay against his chest, skin to skin. After a while she murmured, "That was a stupid argument we had that night. I called you some names... I should probably apologise."

"Forget it." He sounded sleepy now, voice getting slower and deeper as she relaxed into him. "Go to sleep, Bolls." He reached over and turned off the lamp before gathering her in his arms again. She curled against him, marvelling at how utterly comfortable she felt, despite their unfamiliarity as lovers. Before long, her regular breathing told him she was asleep.

As Gene lay in the darkness, holding her, a fierce joy burned within him. This was where he wanted to be, who he wanted to be. Her champion, her protector. Needed. Wanted. At last that possibility had been offered him again, and he would do his damnedest not to muck it up this time.

* * *

Alex awoke in the morning to a feeling of warm peacefulness, Gene's bulk a reassuring presence beside her, his snoring gentle and rhythmic. She made a quick trip to the bathroom, removed the vestiges of last night's make-up, and hurried back to the warmth of the bed, pressing herself to his still sleeping form. Gradually he came to, eventually opening a bleary eye and looking at her, before putting an arm around her. "All right?" he asked, voice deep and husky with sleep.

"Mmm. Yes. Good," she replied, moving her hand up to rest on his chest. After a moment, though, a small frown creased her brow. "Gene?"

"Mmmm?"

"What happens now?"

_Shit. _Cold doubt enfolded his heart, although he managed to keep his face almost the same, and tried to make his tone light as he asked, "Having second thoughts, are you?"

"No. _No."_ She reached up and stroked the side of his face. "I want this, really I do."

"Well, in that case..." His gaze shifted from her face down to her breasts, "I've got a few ideas."

She giggled, but persevered. "I mean, about work. We'll be the talk of the station, when people find out. You know, the stares, the whispering... Ray making snide comments... I'm not sure if I want all that, just yet."

He frowned at her, thinking. "Look, Bolls," he said reasonably, "I'm not going to march into the station and announce that I've just shagged you. 'S none of their bloody business. I don't give a toss what they say, but if you don't like it, they don't have to know anything just yet."

"OK," she said slowly, still stroking his face, feeling the rough growth of stubble under her thumb. "I don't really care either, but... let's keep them guessing for a while, shall we?"

"All right." He looked amused. She took a proper look at him, all tousled blond hair, dark shadow of stubble across his jaw, the dimple... he looked utterly edible. Suddenly she couldn't get enough of him, she wanted to touch, kiss, lick every inch of him. He was more than happy to let her, lying back under the onslaught with a slightly amazed smile on his face. He still could hardly believe it was real, and when she straddled him and rode him, her face flushed with pleasure, working them both rhythmically to a breath-taking climax, he thought he had probably died and gone to Heaven.


	15. Breakthroughs

**Sorry to make you wait so long for this chapter - it took quite a long time to get quite right. Many thanks to grainweevil for patient and dedicated beta-ing, and RedSky for checking it over as well. **

**Thanks so much to those of you who are still reading after all this time - I really appreciate it and I love your reviews. Only one more chapter to go after this one, so the end is in sight!**

Alex lay with her head on Gene's chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Eventually he rumbled, "Well now, Bolls," and she raised her head to look at him.

"What?"

"If my memory serves me correctly, a night of passion such as that leaves you with a raging appetite for a full English."

She grinned. "I could be persuaded. Do you know anywhere round here? There's nothing in the flat except Special K."

He rolled his eyes. "Might have known. There's that greasy spoon just round the corner."

"Sounds good....Oh." Suddenly her face fell.

"What?"

"They'll know us, won't they? There's probably someone from the station in there right now."

"Bugger. Good point. Hamster food it is, then."

"Hamster... oh, the Special K." She smiled at him. "Yes, all right. I'll need a shower first, though." She stretched luxuriously and got out of bed.

"Me too. Be quick or I'll be in there with you."

She rather wished he would follow through on that, but didn't quite have the nerve to say so. Likewise he wasn't quite sure what her response would be if he did, so he merely lay back and admired the sight of her curvaceous buttocks as she disappeared towards the bathroom.

* * *

Alex dressed while Gene was in the shower, and began to set out breakfast things on the small kitchen table. It felt rather odd. With only herself to cater for, she'd taken to eating breakfast in mouthfuls between dashes from bathroom to bedroom to living room, always running late. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd bothered to lay the table. Cereal, bowls, milk... all very homely. Perhaps too homely? Too soon? She didn't want to scare him off.

When he came into the kitchen she was just setting the teapot down on the table. Her face registered pleasure at the sight of him, still towelling his hair dry. He was wearing his best trousers from the night before, and the white shirt was rather rumpled by now. _God, he's gorgeous._

Gene gave a quarter of a smile and sat himself down at the tiny kitchen table, swearing as he tried to manoeuvre his long legs into the small space.

"Christ, Bolls, dunno hope you cope in this bloody rabbit hutch. Cracked me skull on that shelf over your basin too," he grumbled.

"You haven't broken anything?"

"Don't think so." Gingerly, he felt his scalp. "No blood anyway."

"I meant on the shelf."

"Cheeky mare."

She smiled. "Tea?" she asked brightly.

"Ta."

"Milk? Sugar's in the bowl."

Gene cast a wary eye at the matching sugar bowl and milk jug. The cup, and ..._God help me..._ matching saucer. Suddenly it had taken him back to another kitchen, another town... his wife sitting there, getting the breakfast. Every morning the same, for years and years, except her face had got gradually sourer, the atmosphere more and more frosty, until after she had gone, he had sworn, n_ever again. _Thrown half the crockery across the garden to demonstrate the fact.

"What's the matter?" She looked flustered. "Um... cereal? I could do some toast?"

"Nah. I'm... I'm not hungry. I'll just have the tea."

He couldn't meet her gaze, staring instead at the teapot. That matched too. Suddenly he needed to get up. Get out of here, before... _Can't do this._ Abruptly he got to his feet, the chair hitting the _ridiculous, stupid, bloody shelf thing_ behind him.

_Now what?_ The intimacy between them was evaporating by the second, and Alex didn't have a clue what to do about it. She began, "You really should have breakfast, you know, it's - " then stopped abruptly, appalled as she realised that she was nagging him exactly the way she had nagged her ex-husband. Staring mutely into her bowl, she curled her hands around her tea to warm them, horrified that she had slid so quickly back into habits from the bad old days. Habits that she had promised herself, _never again._

They avoided one another's eyes, both crippled with unwanted memories. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Well if he couldn't say anything, at least he could do something. Throwing back his head, Gene drained his cup and slammed it down on the worktop.

"I'd best be off," he grunted. He strode through into the living room and began pulling on his boots.

"No – wait..." She followed him, uncertain of what to do or say. She didn't want to leave it like this. He shrugged on his coat and turned towards the door, avoiding looking at her.

"Gene?" Something quietly insistent in her voice made him stop, still with his back towards her.

"Gene, it was never going to be easy. Not with our track record."

She saw his shoulders rise and fall as he sighed, before replying quietly, "No. No, you're right. It never was."

Slowly he turned back towards her, his inner dialogue working furiously. _She's nothing like your wife, you know that. It doesn't have to be the same. _You _don't have to be the same... _

He looked at her pale face, chin raised in a manner that was almost defiant. It wouldn't be easy, but she wasn't going to let it beat her. Her eyes were pleading with him to do the same.

"Bolls... come 'ere..."

He took a stride towards her and she went to meet him. He enfolded her in his arms, wrapping her in the black coat, kissing her, passion tempered with tenderness. Facing down the ghosts of his past might be difficult, but she was infinitely worth it.

Eventually they finished the kiss and she snuggled into his chest, head under his chin. "You don't have to go," she murmured.

"Nah, I should." He stroked her hair. "Get out of your way." He didn't quite know what to do with a whole day of leisure with her. "I, er, need to get back to my place. Things to sort out. Clean clothes, and such."

"Oh – OK, if you like." She didn't want to appear clingy.

"I'll, er, see you tomorrow then." He released her once more.

"Yes. Tomorrow." One more gentle brush of his lips against hers, and he was gone.

Fifteen minutes later, as Gene let himself into his cold flat, he wondered what the hell he was doing. He could have stayed. Should have stayed. There had been no need to come back here until much later. Now what was he going to do with the rest of the day? He would much rather have been with her. Cursing himself for a fool, he lit a cigarette and tried to summon the energy to wash the car.

In her own flat, Alex wandered around restlessly, picking things up at random and putting them down without really seeing them, trying to process what had just happened. Just as in November, they had moved from blissful intimacy to awkwardness in the blink of an eye. _No. Not as bad as in November, _she told herself firmly. Then they had argued, spat hurtful words at one another. Today it had just been – strange. Uncomfortable. _It's bound to happen, _she rationalised to herself. _You've both come out of bad relationships, there's going to be baggage. __Give it time. Give _him_ time. _She tried to stay positive, reminding herself that at least when he kissed her, it had felt as though he wanted to stay.

* * *

First thing on Monday morning, Alex took a call from Andrew Lambert. After setting the phone down, she went quietly into Gene's office, trying not to draw attention from any other members of the team. Standing in front of his desk, she felt slightly uncomfortable. It was the first time she had seen him since yesterday.

He looked up at her, rather more searchingly than usual. "All right, Bolly?"

"Yes. Fine." _Stop making me nervous. _To dispel the sensation of feeling like a schoolgirl in front of the headmaster, she deliberately sat down. "That was Andrew on the phone."

"Oh yes?" Gene's face took on the slightly sour look which greeted any mention of Lambert.

Alex registered it with slight exasperation but decided to ignore it. "Yes. He's arranged a reconstruction of the attack on Hazel Armstrong for Friday afternoon, and he wants me to go up there and just check over the details beforehand. You know, because I've got more experience of that sort of thing."

"Christ, can't he do a bloody thing on his own?"

Alex couldn't let that pass. "That's not fair. You know how much use Jim Bordon is – Andrew's practically running the whole show up there - "

_Oh, that's right. Jump to Lambert's defence, why don't you?_ Gene was about to retaliate with a wounding comment when he remembered yesterday and pulled himself up short. _Don't muck it up now, Hunt. Be different. _Taking a deep breath, he replied "Fine. Off you trot to Nottingham and tell him how it's done. Just get your arse back here again pronto afterwards."

"Right. Thanks." Alex felt as though the wind had been taken out of her sails and realised that, unconsciously, she had already been squaring up for an argument. Arguing with Gene would be a hard habit to break. "Friday, then," she repeated by way of confirmation, getting up to leave.

"Yes. Friday." They looked at one another, still uncertain, each trying to appear more conciliatory. Then the ridiculousness of the situation won through: Alex gave an embarrassed grin and Gene responded with a sheepish chuckle. Keen not to attract attention from the others, Alex quietly closed the door, before moving back towards the desk.

"Strange, this, isn't it?"

"Bit odd, Bolly, yes," he admitted.

She took a step towards him. "How's the bump on your head?"

"I'll live." He lowered his voice a little. "You sleep OK last night?"

"Not as well as the night before," she replied immediately, a provocative glint in her eye.

He decided to seize his chance while it was offered. "We'll have to see what we can do about that. Can I see you tonight?"

Her grin widened. "Of course. Why don't you come round to the flat? I'll cook something."

A shadow crossed his face, but he replied, "Sounds good to me, Bolly," with determined cheerfulness.

Something about his forced tone set off alarm bells. _Shit. Am I pushing him too hard? _Quickly, she added "Unless you'd prefer to go out... somewhere?"

_Get a grip, Hunt. You're going to have to get used to eating in her flat. Anyway, there are bound to be certain compensations... _The thought appealed greatly to him, and this time there was real warmth in his voice as he replied "No, honest, I'd like to come round to yours. I'd like it very much indeed."

Something about his appreciative growl went straight to her nether regions. "Great." Unconsciously she moved towards him around the desk, only to be snapped back to her senses by a knock at the door.

"See you later," she said quickly, giving his hand the briefest squeeze before opening the door and leaving the office as Viv came in.

* * *

They went home separately as normal at the end of the day. About an hour later he returned, slipping quietly up the stairs to her flat. She'd said she wanted to keep people guessing.

Her kiss of welcome felt pretty unequivocal, though, and he responded with enthusiasm, hands slipping down her body appreciatively. _This is better. _Eventually he raised his head and sniffed at the delicious savoury scent wafting through the flat. She smiled and asked "Are you hungry?"

"Yes." His mouth found hers again, hand on her bottom, pulling her closer. "But let's eat first."

She giggled at the corniness of the joke and went to open some wine. He shrugged off his coat and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the evening to come. God help him, but perhaps domesticity did have its attractions after all.

It was still an effort to sit down with her at the small table, trying to banish the spectres from his mind. He frowned and concentrated on his food, leaving her quiet and apprehensive. After a few mouthfuls, he put his knife and fork down and began, "Bolls, you know this thing on Friday?"

"Yes?" She looked at him uncertainly.

"Well, how would it be if I came up there with you? Get this palaver at the university out of the way, then we could go off to a hotel somewhere? For the weekend. What d'you reckon?"

"Oh!" Alex looked both surprised and delighted. "Yes… yes, that would be lovely!"

"Good. Leave it with me, then." Looking satisfied, he resumed eating.

Alex was still assimilating the idea. "Great. Thank you. Fantastic… a weekend away."

"Weekend having it away, more like." The comment was light, but his eyes watched carefully to see her reaction. To his relief, she looked as pleased as a cat that has just been stroked, and he felt her ankle entwine around his under the table. After that, he thought he showed admirable restraint in actually finishing his dinner before taking her to bed.

* * *

The next morning he managed to sit and eat breakfast with her before heading into the station. She followed fifteen minutes later, as agreed, looking cool as a cucumber, but inwardly joyful. It felt as though they were making it work. _We can do this._

For the rest of the week, they tried to behave normally at work, but there were enough shared glances, enough fleeting touches of the fingertips as he passed her, for each to know that what existed between them was real. Gene stayed over again on Wednesday night, and by Thursday Alex felt as though she was walking on a cloud, buoyed up by the promise of the weekend to come. He had meant to stay on Thursday too, but in the end he had to work late, dealing with an arrest made that evening, so she spent the night alone. She told herself that she could hardly miss him in under a week, but nevertheless she was lonely in bed without his warm presence, his already familiar scent, and it took her a long time to get to sleep.

He was at her door early on Friday morning, his good-morning kiss as greedy as if he wanted to devour her. She was more than half-minded to let him, but reminding herself about the day's importance, she reluctantly broke off. Instead she feasted her eyes on him, long legs going down the steps in front of her, smoke and breath curling away into the frosty air in equal measure as he lifted her bags into the boot of the Quattro. Once in the car, she tried to think about the details of the reconstruction, but her thoughts kept straying enticingly to the evening to follow.

They arrived at Nottingham University in good time and walked through the park-like campus side by side, each resisting a rather ridiculous urge to hold hands. The day was bright and sunny, though the wind still had a chilly edge and patches of snow lay in the shadows of hedges and buildings. But the green shoots of snowdrops were poking up through the grass, and for the first time, Alex felt as though the long winter was finally ending.

They met Lambert as arranged in front of the Students' Union. He greeted Alex warmly and Gene as politely as ever, although his smile looked a little strained. Gene on the other hand was magnanimous in victory, shaking Lambert's hand and favouring him with a wide grin.

Lambert led them inside. The Union had lent them a couple of rooms for the day but they were uncomfortably full of people, fuggy with warm air and smoke. Lambert made the introductions: members of his team, along with various university staff and student representatives. Gene's customary scowl returned as he registered proximity to students and academics, and Alex silently thanked Providence that it was she who was required to speak to them, not him. One tall young man, introduced as Simon, seemed familiar. Alex looked at him quizzically. "Haven't I met you somewhere before?"

"Yes, at the police station. Sarah and I came to pick up Nadine after she'd talked to you."

"Oh yes, of course." Alex smiled, remembering the couple who had met Nadine Taylor, the serial rapist's second victim, after her interview.

"Simon's the Welfare Officer here at the Uni, he's been extremely helpful," enthused Lambert, before guiding Alex away to meet the young woman who was to play the part of student Hazel Armstrong in the reconstruction. He managed to find them a quieter corner where Alex could talk her through what was required.

After that were more last-minute arrangements and discussions with the university, with uniform, with the press, followed by a quickly-eaten sandwich from a batch which Lambert had ordered in from the refectory. At last, the team moved outside to start the reconstruction, and Alex inhaled the fresh air with relief, glad to escape from the stale stuffiness of indoors.

While Lambert was talking to the local TV news team who were to film the reconstruction, Alex glanced around and recognised a slim, auburn-haired figure hovering some distance away at the very edge of the assembled crowd. It was Hazel Armstrong herself, the shy young history student whom Alex had met back in November. She had not been involved in the morning's preparations as Lambert was keen to spare her any further distress, but it seemed that curiosity had made her unable to stay away all together. Quietly, Alex slipped over to talk to her. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, it's you!" Hazel looked surprised but genuinely pleased to see her. "I'm OK… not bad. Actually," she paused as if considering whether to go on, and then the next words tumbled out in a rush, "I've been seeing a counsellor, you know, like you suggested when you saw me. She's really helpful; it's made me feel a lot better. Thank you so much."

"Oh, it's nothing – I'm just glad it's been a help." Close up, Alex could see that the girl really did look better – there was colour in her face, and she carried herself with more confidence.

"Yes," Hazel continued, "in fact, it was her that gave me the courage to come here today. I kind of felt as though I wanted to, just to… to see things through, you know? Towards an ending? And she said if that's how I felt, then I should come."

Alex murmured understanding, but the conversation was cut short as she was called back to the main throng to give some last-minute advice. She clasped Hazel's hand briefly before allowing herself to be led away.

The attack had taken place on a narrow footpath with a high gymnasium wall on one side and bushes on the other. It was a difficult place for spectators to see, but the reconstruction would take in all of Hazel's journey, right from when she left the library. Quite a large crowd had gathered to line the route, responding to prior publicity, plus of course the local press and TV. Lambert addressed them all through a megaphone, explaining what was going to happen and asking for quiet for the filming. Then, at last, it began.

Suddenly the buzz of conversation fell eerily silent. As the auburn-haired girl in jeans walked up the path, a bag over her shoulder, Alex's senses seemed heightened to everything that was going on. In the quietness she could hear the distant sound of birdsong, feel the puffs of cold breeze on her face. The girl walked, the cameras rolled, the crowd watched. Looking at them, Alex could pick out individual faces she recognised: Lambert, tense with concentration, following the progress of the actress and the cameras. Gene, a little distance away, leaning against a wall, smoking, unconcerned. Further back on a grassy bank stood Hazel Armstrong, uncomfortable, but unable to tear herself away.

At the front of the crowd was Simon, accompanied by a couple of girls. With his highlighted hair, leather jacket, and jeans tucked into his boots, Alex thought he looked like a pop star. She recognised the women as his girlfriend, Sarah, and the rape victim Nadine Taylor. Her mind recalled the last time she had seen the three of them together, when they had come to collect Nadine after her interview. Sarah had hugged Nadine and given her a cigarette, and Simon had lit it for her… with a match…a match from…

Alex caught her breath at the sudden vivid mental image and its possible significance. She was absolutely certain of what she had seen, and the thought that the detail had been there in her mind, unnoticed, all along, made her go hot and then cold with excitement. She wanted to go to Lambert immediately and tell him about it, but the reconstruction was still going on. The girl playing Hazel disappeared into the narrow entrance by the gymnasium, cameras in front of her, Lambert following behind. Even when it was over and the crowd began to disperse, the TV crew wanted to continue, taking more shots from other angles, close-ups, panoramas, and Lambert was kept busy advising and supervising them. Alex rejoined Gene, who dropped his cigarette butt, ground it under his boot, and looked her up and down. "All right, Bolly? When can you get shut of all this?"

"Soon," she promised, not immune to the desire in his voice, "but I've just realised something - it might be important – I've got to tell Lambert."

"All right." Gene looked only slightly fed-up. The anticipation of the upcoming weekend had put him in an almost unshakeable good mood. He could wait.

When Lambert was finally free, he left the crowd of media and headed towards Alex and Gene of his own accord. "I think that went off reasonably well, don't you?"

"Yes – yes, it was fine - " Alex began in a rush, but Lambert interrupted before she could get to her point.

"Now we'll just have to wait and see if anyone comes forward – if it's prompted anyone."

"Yes. Listen, Andrew," Alex was firm this time, determined to have her say. "There's something I just realised – it's probably nothing, but… it could be important."

"Oh, what?"

"The matchbook. You remember the matchbook you found in the bushes up there – the Slater & Co one? That Welfare guy, Simon - when I saw him today, I suddenly remembered that back in November, he had one similar. I just think you should have a closer look at him – look into his background a bit. Just to check it out."

"Eh?" Lambert looked blank, trying to take in what she had said. "But – Simon? You're not saying he could have anything to do with this, surely? He's been nothing but cooperative, right through. Can't do enough to help us."

"Yes, I know," she looked apologetic, but dogged. "All the same – I've just got a feeling…"

"And lots of people use matchbooks." Lambert still looked perplexed; he was in the habit of following Alex's advice, but on this occasion, unable to accept the full implications.

"Yes," Alex replied patiently, "they do, but - "

"Listen, chum," Gene took Lambert's elbow in an almost paternal manner. "When she says, '_It's probably nothing, but…_', you'd do well to check it out, OK? She's good on hunches. And on details."

Alex felt pride tempered with amusement at such blatant praise. It was really not so long since Gene had been publicly belittling her skills… but he'd been hurt, she now realised. She had said some unkind things too. She hoped they could both leave that behind them.

Lambert at last seemed to take the advice on board. "All right," he conceded, "I'll run a few enquiries, find out if he has anything that might link him… but I really don't think it'll come to anything."

"Just do it," Gene growled, and, finally tiring of waiting, he took Alex's arm in an uncompromising hold and marched her back towards the Quattro. "Come on, Bolls. Weekend starts here."

* * *

Alex had expected the hotel to be nearby, perhaps even the one where they had stayed in November, and was surprised when Gene drove across the M1 and took the A42 down towards the West Midlands.

"Gene, where are we going?"

"Hotel, where d'you think?"

"Couldn't you find one any nearer?" She was amused. She didn't really care where they went.

"Not what I was looking for, no." That was all he would say, and Alex was left to speculate for the rest of the journey.

It was growing dark when, after driving along increasingly narrow and winding country roads, Gene turned the Quattro through a gateway and pulled up on the gravel. Alex looked out of the window and saw a long, low, ivy-clad, timber-framed building, apparently an Elizabethan manor house. A sign by the door proclaimed that it was indeed a country house hotel.

"Oh goodness – Gene, it's beautiful!" She didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn't as nice as this.

He couldn't look at her while he said it, but she was sure she heard him mutter, very low, "You deserve it."

Their room was at the back of the hotel, with windows looking out on what promised in daylight to be a terraced knot-garden. It was large enough not to be dominated by the great dark oak four-poster bed, and furnished in cream linen and soft faded brocade. A lump came to Alex's throat as she realised that Gene Hunt, archetypal anti-romantic, had chosen this for _her_.

"Gene, it's beautiful... just beautiful..." Her eyes shone as she turned to thank him.

He smirked down at her, inordinately pleased at her response. "Thought you'd like a four-poster."

"It's called a tester bed, really." Even her joy at this perfect room could not kill Alex's life-long passion for imparting knowledge. She moved over to admire the carvings on the bedhead.

"Is that so?" Gene came up behind her and ran his hands over her shoulders, around her waist, exploring her breasts and belly. "We'd better test it then." He kissed the side of her neck.

She giggled and turned to face him, hands sneaking under his jacket, kissing his jaw, his chin. "Perhaps we should," she agreed, whispering as she undid his tie. "Before dinner?"

"Definitely before dinner" he growled, making a start on her buttons. "I've been waiting all bloody day for this."

In delighted haste they undressed one another, revelling in each other's bodies as they were revealed. Alex thought she could never tire of Gene, of his skin, the sight and smell and touch and taste of him. When she dropped her pencil skirt to reveal stockings and suspenders, his breath hissed in appreciation, and she was glad that she had gone to the trouble of wearing them. In truth they had been giving her a slight thrill all day, intensifying ever since they reached the hotel. Now as Gene slid his hands over her thighs, removing her knickers, she was more than ready for him, slick with longing, every part of her aching for him. He had already removed her bra, and bent his head to tongue one pointed nipple, fingers tracing the other, his other hand finding the throbbing core between her legs. It was more than she could stand. "Gene – oh God – I want you _now..."_

"Turn round," he growled, and she turned to face the bed, hands flat on the patchwork quilt, feet planted on the floor, her round arse presented to him in invitation. He took a moment to admire the perfect view of her buttocks with the black suspender straps taut across them, before taking hold of her hips and burying his cock deep into her, groaning with lust.

He stilled for a moment and then started to thrust, slowly at first, still holding her hips. She felt incredible, so hot and wet, he was almost driven wild by the sensation. Between thrusts he managed to gasp out words: "Christ, Bolly – Alex - wanted you – like this – for so long - _unghhh - w_anted you – over my desk…"

"Desk – what? Really?" In between moans of pleasure, she giggled. "Well, if that's what you want, one of these days I may just – _oooh – _oblige you – _aaah – oh God, yes…" _She closed her legs to increase the friction and he thrust faster, panting, closing his eyes, driving himself onwards until with a shouted expletive he clenched and spilled into her, stars bursting inside his eyelids. Alex reached down to touch herself and followed him over the edge, pulsing with exquisite pleasure, grinding backwards onto him as she screamed her release.

Breathless he leant over, still inside her, his arm around her, and kissed between her shoulder blades. "Oh God… Bolly… you're sensational."

"So are you." After a moment she straightened up so that he slid out of her, turned and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Something about her action gave him a sudden surge of joy and he returned the kiss, fiercely. Eventually she broke off, smiling, and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Well then, Gene," she murmured into his neck, before raising her head and smiling into his face. "Has that taken the edge off your appetite?"

"One of them," he acknowledged, grinning, his big hands stroking her back. "For the moment."

She giggled again. "Think I need a shower before we work on the others."

"Go on then." He slapped her rump and she sashayed off into the bathroom, hips swaying, still wearing her stockings and suspenders. Gene collapsed onto the bed, watching her appreciatively. As she disappeared from view and he heard the water start running, he stretched out and experienced a feeling of unparalleled satisfaction. So far, this was going even better than he'd hoped.

* * *

The hotel's restaurant brought home to Alex the shortcomings of life in the 1980s. The menu was heavy on prawn cocktail and Black Forest gateau, and the service put her irresistibly in mind of a Victoria Wood sketch. Not that she minded: to be sitting there with Gene, their tangled relationship at long last straightened out and even going somewhere, was more than enough. She could have been eating gruel and she wouldn't have cared.

If the food was uninspired, the wine at least was good quality. Under the influence of a good Bordeaux, it was easy for both of them to relax. As they waited for the food to arrive, Gene glanced around the room and a reminiscent smile crossed his face.

"What?" enquired Alex, head on one side.

"Was just remembering." He grinned again. "You know last week, you were asking me about eating out in Manchester?" She nodded and he continued, "There was this one place, down Peter Street – the Café Royal. Used to be famous for seeing who was with who – all sorts of liaisons going on. Anyway, this one time, we'd been after this bloke for months. Martlett, Bob Martlett. Handbag snatcher, but more than that – he'd knock down the women whose bags he took, punch 'em in the face even – nasty piece of work. Left several lasses needing stitches – not pretty. We _really_ wanted to collar him."

Alex nodded: she could imagine. "Go on."

"Well, he tended to work Friday and Saturday nights, when everyone was out spending their pay, so this one night, me and Sam were keeping an eye out for him. We saw him knock down this woman on Deansgate and we took off after 'im, and he belted round the corner and straight into the Café. He went hurtling through the place with us right behind him, tables and chairs all over the place, waiters being knocked over, food flying through the air…"

He chuckled at the memory and Alex joined in, the picture vivid in her mind from his description. His Manchester accent was stronger as he talked about his home town, and she found it rather endearing.

"Turned out Ray was in there with his latest bird – some blonde floozy 'e was trying to impress. When he saw Martlett he upped and took off after him as well. We chased 'im through the kitchen and out the back, over a six-foot brick wall – dustbins kicked all over – up the ginnel and along two more streets before we caught him. Was Ray that finally cuffed 'im, and he was so chuffed to have got him, he insisted on bringing him in to the station and booking him himself. Completely forgot about 'is bird back at the restaurant. When he got back there an hour later, she'd gone, and he found out they'd made her pay the bill as well. She was so furious, she never did speak to him again after that."

Alex laughed at the story and, fascinated by the rare glimpse of his past, gently prompted him to tell more. Tactfully she limited herself to asking about Ray and Chris, not mentioning Sam, and certainly not the ex-Mrs Hunt. As Gene talked, she gradually saw more facets of him, understood more about how he had become the man he was. And with understanding came even more... affection? Was she ready, she wondered to herself, to call it love?

In turn, he asked more about her past, and she had to think quickly, changing names and dates and glossing over incidents which involved technology not yet invented. It didn't feel like lying to him, though – simply, a necessary process that she would have to learn to go through, not just with him but with everyone. This was her world, now. There was no going back.

After dinner they sprawled before the open fire on a huge, battered leather sofa in a snug area of the bar, she drinking brandy, he single malt, staring contentedly into the flames. Eventually he stretched like a tomcat in the sun, looked her in the eyes and murmured, "You know, Bolls, I don't think we gave that bed a thorough testing. We weren't even on it."

A wicked smile spread across her face as she replied, "Do you know, I think you're right. Further analysis is - _mmm - _" the latter as his hand travelled up her thigh " – definitely called for."

They walked back to the room unhurriedly, his arm around her waist, supremely at ease with one another. This time there was no haste, just a joyous savouring of every moment, every sensation. Completely naked she lay back on the majestic bed and let him explore her from her toes upwards, each touch of his mouth or fingers gradually raising the temperature of her desire until she was ready to burst into flames. Whimpers of pleasure escaped her as he lipped delicately at her nipples, tongue tracing over them… it was exquisite, but there was something missing… She realised that, having once withdrawn her permission, she would have to give it again.

"Gene?"

"Mmm?"

"You know, I don't actually have to appear in front of anyone I know for two days now…" She paused, wondering whether she was being too subtle.

She felt him smile against her skin, heard it in his voice. "Can't think what you mean, Bolly," he murmured.

She gave a yelp of pleasure as his teeth closed on her flesh.

* * *

Later, he lay with his arms around her, body spooning around hers, face buried in her hair. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered briefly whether he could ever have too much of this beautiful, clever, sexy, amazing, adorable woman.

He didn't think so.

_Good._

* * *

The splendours of the hotel's breakfast more than made up for the shortcomings of its dinner. Alex wiped her mouth on her napkin and leaned back, replete. "That was fantastic. If we do this too often, I'll be the size of a bus."

"I'll help you work it off." Gene's face was straight but his eyes glinted as he said it. "So, what d'you want to do today?"

"Umm... where are we, exactly?" She had tried to read the signposts as they travelled last night, but had had to give up once they left the main roads.

"Just south of Coventry. Somewhere near Kenilworth."

She hadn't been far wrong. "In that case... could we go to Stratford?"

"What, trip round the veg market and see the old railway works? Not my idea of a day out, but whatever floats your boat..."

She frowned in puzzlement before she realised he was teasing. "Stratford_-upon-Avon_, not East London, smartarse."

He grinned and replied easily, "Wherever you like, Bolls." He'd known she'd choose somewhere poncey. He didn't mind.

* * *

It was a bright, breezy morning, small patches of cloud scudding across the blue sky. Alex wanted to walk by the river, and ignored Gene's grumbles that he was getting enough exercise already lately. He was content to cave in; it was good just to look at her, cheeks flushed from the cold air, blue and grey scarf tied nonchalantly around her neck to hide the evidence of the night before. They walked arm in arm, boots in step with each other across the muddy grass, under the bare trees. Alex savoured the fresh air with its promise of spring, the feel of sunshine on her face. A swan swam hopefully across to them, attended by a small flotilla of ducks, like tugs around an aircraft carrier.

"Bother. I should have saved some of the toast from breakfast. I haven't got anything to feed them with."

"They get enough bloody food." Gene rolled his eyes. There were _limits._

They crossed the bridge by the theatre, Alex greeting the ugly red-brick building like the face of a much-loved old friend. She remembered school trips here as a teenager, and Evan had brought her too, both of them loving to lose themselves in the magic of Shakespeare for two or three hours. Now she looked at the posters around the theatre to see what was on, but the season had just finished. Musingly, she wondered if having a second chance at the 1980s would allow her to see productions that she'd missed first time round. In a few years' time the almost unknown Kenneth Branagh would first take to the stage as Henry V... then there'd be Antony Sher's landmark _Richard III _on crutches... Alan Rickman finding fame in _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_... maybe she could persuade Gene to come back to this hotel again? She smiled at the absurdity of her thoughts running away with her.

"What?" He was watching her with that odd, almost gentle expression of curiosity that he sometimes wore.

"Oh, nothing." She felt embarrassed to be planning their future together so soon. "I just... I like it here, that's all. Can we come back some time?"

"So long as I can stop in the hotel and watch footie while you go into raptures over the twats in ruffs and tights."

She burst out laughing, both at his turn of phrase and the way he had read her thoughts so accurately.

She wanted to go into a quaint little tea-room for lunch, but Gene drew the line at that, so they walked further into the town centre and found an acceptable pub. It was a genuine Tudor building, dark and a bit grimy inside, but the atmosphere was authentic enough for Alex and the beer good enough for Gene. In the afternoon the clouds rolled in and it began to rain, so Alex abandoned the idea of another walk with only slight reluctance. Gene was more than happy to drive back to the hotel, his mind already planning an indulgent afternoon and evening involving hot showers, dinner, and the big welcoming four-poster bed. Not necessarily in that order.

* * *

Late that night, after disposing of yet another condom, Gene got back into bed. Wrapping his arms around Alex, he spooned around her, nuzzling into the back of her neck.

After a moment he said softly, "Bolls?"

"Mmmyes?" She felt languorous, drowsy.

"This is going to be a regular occurrence, right?"

"What, staying in hotels? I do hope so." Her voice was lazy, teasing.

He frowned in slight irritation: this was difficult for him, and she wasn't making it any easier. "You know what I mean. _This. _Us."

Something about his tone told her he was serious. She craned round a bit to look at him, reaching back to stroke his thigh. "Yes, I hope it is. This is what I want, you know I do. You. Us. I want _us._"

"Good. Because the thing is -" he stared at the back of her head, glad that she couldn't see his face. "I know you don't want to go on the pill, but… is there anything else we can do, apart from usin' johnnies? I mean, it's alright, but" – he made an expression of distaste – "it's like paddlin' in yer wellies."

Alex burst into giggles at his choice of simile. "You have such a way with words," she replied, wriggling round to kiss him to show that she was not laughing _at _him. Privately she was racking her brains, trying to work out just what contraceptive choices _were_ available in 1981. The coil? Yes, surely she could get one of those? "Don't worry," she assured him, still smiling fondly, "I'll sort something out."

"Only if you want to, like." He hoped he was being fair here.

"No, really, it's fine." She realised that the fact that he'd even broached the subject was a big step for him. Fine? It was more than fine. "Go to sleep."

"Go to sleep yourself, you dozy tart." With which endearment, both of them drifted off with smiles on their faces.

* * *

Gene came slowly back to consciousness the next morning, cocooned by the semi-darkness and the warmth of the bed. Gradually he became aware of Alex lying beside him and lay for a while without touching her, just inhaling her scent, listening to her soft, regular breathing. Everything this weekend had gone so much better than he had imagined. He had rarely felt so content.

Alex shifted a little and muttered in her sleep and he moved closer to her, close enough to put an arm around her, nuzzle against her shoulder. To feel her skin, smooth and warm and fragrant against his mouth… Ever hopeful, his body began to ready itself for action.

She was lying on her belly, head pillowed on one arm, her still-sleeping face turned towards him. Lifting himself on one elbow, he leaned over her, raining tiny kisses and nibbles onto her shoulder, her ear. With his other hand he stroked her hair, twisting one curling tendril around his finger. Her eyes didn't open but she shifted a bit, sighing softly, and he saw a smile spread slowly across her face.

Seriously intoxicated now by the smell and feel of her, he ran his middle finger down the length of her spine, broadening out his whole palm to stroke the perfect curves of her buttocks. Gently he began to knead her yielding flesh, deliberately keeping it slow, although by now his cock was hot and hard, pressing insistently against her hip. It was all he could do to keep the kisses on her shoulder gentle; he wanted to sink his teeth into her. Again. His hand moved down between her thighs… "Mmmm, Gene," she murmured sleepily, without opening her eyes. "'M too tired."

"No, you're not," he growled, and smiled when she parted her legs to allow him access. Licking his fingers, he returned to exploring her, gently teasing until she writhed under his touch.

"Mmmmmmm." She made a long sound of pleasure, and suddenly he couldn't wait any longer. Moving himself over her he entered her slowly, breath hissing though his teeth at her slick tightness, hearing an answering gasp from her as he filled her up. He kissed the back of her neck and began to thrust, slowly at first, revelling in the scent of her hair and the feel of her flesh under him, around him. She was delicious and she was his, there to be possessed. He speeded up, hips pumping, biting at the back of her neck like some great big cat. Alex lay with her legs splayed, loving the feeling of being dominated, loving his hot breath, his teeth, his frenzied kisses, the feel of him sliding into her. Unable to stop, he thrust still faster, driven onwards until with a final gasp he released, pulsing into her, breathless, shaking.

Sweaty and spent he lay against her back, face buried in her hair, beyond speech; until, worried about his weight on her, he rolled off her to one side, arm still around her, gathering her to him.

Alex squirmed with pleasure and finally opened her eyes to look at him, smiling, wicked. "Well, all right. Maybe I'm not too tired…"

He grinned as wordlessly she guided his hand down her belly. He needed no further directions; she gasped as his fingers found her soaked and swollen clit and began to work her: around, inside her, slowly building up her pleasure. Steadily, inexorably he drove her onwards, unable to keep the grin off his face as he heard her breathy squeals, watched her writhing body, until with a final scream she bucked against his hand, muscles spasming, waves of pleasure flooding her body and mind.

She lay in a daze, gradually coming back down to earth, wondering at how he could be so good. Her surroundings, the room with its morning light chinking through the curtains, were just starting to impinge on her consciousness when the phone rang. It was on her side of the bed. Groggily she reached out a hand, found it, lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Ma'am?" It was Ray's voice, clearly bemused and uncomprehending at hearing hers. "Sorry, I was after the Guv – thought 'e gave me this as 'is weekend contact number – I must have got the wrong one - "

"No, Ray, it's all right, he's here." Alex wore a look of amused resignation as she handed the receiver over to Gene.

"Morning, Raymondo." Gene's voice was business-like, with just a hint of smugness. He reckoned he was entitled to it. "This had better be worth disturbing me for."

"Guv." Ray was not slow to process the implications of all this, but he had more important fish to fry at present. He wanted to savour his moment of glory. "Guess who got brought in last night for fighting in a pub?"

"Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks. Stop pissing about, Ray. I don't play bloody guessing games."

"Sorry, Guv. It were Kevin Woods! Gave a false name, like, but Viv recognised him from those photos. Then we searched him and found a letter from his gran. It's him, Guv. No doubt about it at all."

"Right, Ray, good stuff. Give Viv a packet of ginger nuts and tell 'im he's a star, then just keep Woods banged up till we get there. We won't be long."

Gene leaned across Alex to replace the phone on its cradle, then propped himself up on one elbow to look at her. "Right then, Bolly-Kecks. Time to get your knickers on for a change. We've got a rapist bastard to interview."


	16. Deadlock

**Well, after another 4-month break, here is another chapter! It was meant to be the last one, but ended up being so long that I have divided it into two, so there is one more to come after this.**

**I'm hugely grateful to grainweevil and RedSkyAtNight, who have both contributed massively to the plot and structure of the story, in particular these final two chapters. The weevil has been a particularly patient and properly picky beta, and I owe her a huge debt. Any punctuation errors in this chapter, however, are due to the fact that RedSky did not see it before publication – my apologies.**

**I'm also grateful to anyone who is still reading this story after such a long time, and even after Series 3! I love it if you review, and really hope you enjoy. This is, of course, a post-Series 1 story and any canon after that should be disregarded. Bearing that in mind, and as it's so long since I updated, the weevil suggested a short summary of The Story So Far. So here we go:**

_**

* * *

**_

While liaising with Nottingham police over a string of brutal rapes, Gene and Alex share a night of passion. Subsequent disagreements over the case drive them apart and their relationship seems irreparable. However, slowly they learn to work together again, resulting in progress in the case. Alex, meanwhile, learns that she is dead in 2008 and she resolves to make a success of her life in 1982. Eventually Alex and Gene admit their feelings for one another and begin a relationship. A week later, they head back north, where a reconstruction staged by DI Andrew Lambert leads Alex to realise the possible identity of Nottingham CID's suspect. Gene takes Alex for a romantic weekend break, but this is cut short when Ray calls to tell them that their suspect, Kevin Woods, has been arrested. Together, they head back to London to interview him.

* * *

Gene frowned as he gripped the steering wheel, once more guiding the Quattro back onto the motorway. "Bloody Woods could have waited another day before he got himself collared," he grumbled, glancing sideways at Alex. "I was starting to enjoy this weekend."

"Only starting?" teased Alex, running a hand lightly up his thigh. "I can't wait to see you when you really get going."

He grinned and swatted her hand away, mock-strict. "Control yourself, you shameless tart. There's more than enough Gene Genie in store for later."

She giggled appreciatively, aware that she was gazing at him like a love-struck teenager, and equally aware that she didn't care. She couldn't remember when she had last felt so ridiculously happy.

He took another glance at her, his own contentment soaring to new heights as he saw the radiance in her face. She hadn't even seemed bothered by the fact that Ray must have rumbled them this morning. "Ready to be the talk of the station, then, Bolls?" he enquired, wondering just how calmly she would take it.

"I am if you are," she replied with a smile held only a hint of ruefulness; at the moment she felt ready for just about anything. "I'm sure Ray's had a field day, telling everyone about us."

"Bloody Ray, gossips worse than an old woman." Gene sounded dismissive. "It'll blow over though. Nine days' wonder, and then something else'll come along, and we'll be old news. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried," she assured him, briefly squeezing his hand and causing his mouth to turn up at one corner. "Not so long as _you_ don't find something – or someone – more interesting." She said it lightly, hoping he didn't hear her genuine insecurity.

"Impossible, Bolly," he responded smartly, raising an eyebrow at her. "Crazy fruitcake woman like you? It'll take me the rest of my natural life to work _you_ out, never mind anyone else."

"Sounds good to me," she replied, her pleasure obvious although she tried to hide it. _The rest of my life. _It felt inexpressibly good to hear him say those words in conjunction with their relationship.

They settled into an amiable silence, each of them feeling an assurance of the other's commitment which went a long way towards compensating for having their weekend cut short. In any case, both of them were in very many respects coppers before anything else. The news of Wood's arrest could only bring them elation.

Likewise, both were too experienced and pragmatic to have any regrets about the manner in which he had been taken. Yes, in all the best stories he would have been discovered as a direct result of their painstaking detective work, but they knew that nine times out of ten, it didn't happen like that in real life. People were brought in, like Woods, for minor offences and then linked to major ones, and you took your chances when they came and were grateful for them. Only a year previously Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, had been arrested for having false number plates on his car.

The priority now was to confirm once and for all whether he was in fact their rapist, and if at all possible, to get a confession. As they drew nearer to London, the sense of anticipation became more palpable, as it had done on the drive back from Corby when they had been expecting an arrest. But now the hard part was done, he was already in custody, and the prospect of tying up the case which had occupied their minds for so many months seemed acutely, tantalisingly close. They could hardly wait to get into the interview room and set to work.

* * *

Gene swept into Fenchurch East in his usual manner, pausing to bark "Well done, Skip," as he passed Viv on the desk, and to give orders for Woods to be taken to an interview room. Alex followed in his wake up to their office on the second floor, where Ray was waiting to bring them up to speed.

Ray smirked into his moustache as he saw them enter together, Alex still sporting the silk scarf around her neck. "Nice weekend?" he queried with an altogether unsuccessful attempt at innocence.

"_Fantastic,_" whispered Alex confidentially, causing Ray some embarrassment, while Gene just looked smug.

As they walked down to the interview room, Ray confirmed that Woods was still unaware that his real identity had been discovered. "Said 'e was called Steve Jones when they pulled 'im in, so we've gone along with it," he reported laconically.

"Well done, Ray, that's excellent. We can use that," praised Alex, and in spite of himself, Ray looked pleased.

They paused in the corridor outside the interview room for a surreptitious look at Woods through the floor-to ceiling window. The man they glimpsed was tall, lean and dark-haired, and looked unkempt – his hair needed cutting and he had not shaved for some days. To complete the picture, he was sporting a livid black eye and a split lip as a result of his altercation in the pub the night before.

"Looks a mess," murmured Gene, before straightening up and sniffing, suddenly business-like. "Right, you ready, Bolls?"

"Of course. So – we'll start with the "softly, softly" approach, yes?"

"If you like. I'll be Barlow, you can be the one with the Marcel wave." He took in her slightly puzzled expression and quickly moved on. "Let's get to it, then. Ray, make sure we don't get any silly buggers interrupting us, will you? Anything less important than life or death, it can wait."

Ray leered cheerfully, his gaze flickering between the two of them. "Sure you don't want me to take Woods away too? Leave you with a bit more privacy?"

His reward was a quelling stare from Alex, while Gene replied with a withering "_Thank you_, Raymondo. When personal comment is required, I'll let you know."

Ray looked only slightly abashed. "Right-o. Here's his stuff, anyway." He handed Alex a large envelope; she briefly glanced at the contents before Gene opened the door and ushered her into the interview room.

* * *

Woods glowered as they introduced themselves and sat down opposite him. He gave a brief nod in acknowledgment of Gene, but merely glared at Alex, his expression a mixture of suspicion and fear.

Gene took the envelope from her and upended it. A motley collection of possessions fell out onto the desk: wallet, lighter, penknife, bus tickets, scraps of paper, and a battered packet of cigarettes. Woods automatically reached out for the latter, but Gene slapped his hand away and moved the packet out of his reach. "I don't think so," he commented, eyeing Woods with distaste. "Right, let's get down to business. Stephen Jones, is it?"

"'s right."

"How long have you been in London?"

"Six months."

"Where did you live before that?" Alex chipped in.

Woods glanced at her unwillingly. "Corby." _Not changing his story too much, then, _she registered.

"Why did you move to London?" Gene again.

"Looking for work."

"What kind of work?" Alex, getting the same dirty look she had received before.

"Anything."

"Did you find any?" Gene cut in.

"No. Me and three million other bastards." Woods' head came up in defiance. "Look, what's this got to do with what happened in the pub?" He sounded belligerent. "Get on with it, will you?"

"We just want to establish a bit of background, that's all, Mr Jones. Get the bigger picture." Alex's tone was as soothing as honey. Woods settled back into his seat, still looking surly. "Would you tell us where you live?" continued Alex, sweetly.

"Nowhere."

"You mean, on the street? Sleeping rough?"

"Yes."

"Ever since you came to London?"

"No."

"What did you do at first, then?" Alex was a model of patience, unlike Gene who, she could tell, was beginning to get irked at the monosyllabic answers.

"Rented a room for a bit."

"Where?" Gene cut in again. Woods gave the address which they had searched in Shadwell. "Why d'you leave?" Gene persisted.

"Couldn't pay the rent."

"Why not? You were signing on, weren't you?"

"Put some money on a horse. Lost it."

"You're lying," replied Gene evenly. There was no change in his expression, but without even looking at him, Alex could sense the anger building up inside him. Perhaps it was a legacy of their recent intimacy, but she could almost feel the heat of him coming to the boil as he sat beside her, sense his tension, like a coiled spring

Woods was not so alert to the signs, or perhaps he wanted to provoke a confrontation, "Oh, you're one of them lie detector machines now, are you, copper? Funny, I can't see the wires. Who's working you?"

Gene surged to his feet and leaned over the desk, grabbing Woods by the collar, their faces only inches apart. "Listen, you little scrote, any more smart answers and you'll get a smack. Do I make myself clear?"

Woods was enjoying the affray: his face was fully animated as he replied, "You can't touch me, copper."

"Bollocks I can't. You're that much of a mess already, no-one's going to notice a few more bruises. Now answer the bloody question. Why d'you leave your digs?"

"I told you – I lost some money on a horse," hissed Woods in reply, still facing up to him.

Gene's smack came out of nowhere and landed on the side of Woods' face. "Bollocks! You left because you had a feeling we were onto you, didn't you? Who told you?"

Woods recoiled at the blow to his face, but after a moment recovered and looked likely to retaliate. Alex stepped in to defuse the situation.

"Sit down, please, Mr Jones," she ordered calmly; Gene rather grudgingly released his hold on Woods' collar and they both resumed their seats, still glowering at one another like dogs parted while fighting.

"I think you're lying too," Alex continued smoothly, dragging Woods' attention back to herself. "About all sorts of things. For example," she leaned in for the kill, and spoke sweetly, "your name."

"What?" He looked suspicious.

"Well, let's look at this." Alex reached across to the envelope which had held Woods' possessions, reached inside it and ostentatiously drew out a sheet of paper which had remained lodged inside. "This letter begins "Dear Kevin". Why would that be?"

Woods looked slightly discomfited, but after only a moment replied, "'s my middle name, innit? 'S what my gran calls me."

_He's quick, _Alex had to admit to herself, but she ignored the distraction. "No. We know what your gran calls you. You see, we've already been in contact with her. We know who she is, and we know who you are. Your name is Kevin Woods."

If she had hoped for a dramatic response, a sudden crumbling of his defences, she did not get it. Woods considered his response, his eyes darting from one to the other of them, before eventually exhaling and answering, "All right, then. So what?"

"So, why did you use another name?" demanded Gene with some hostility.

"Don't have to tell you. It's not a crime, is it?"

"Actually, it _is_ a crime to obtain money under false pretences, which is what you were doing when you claimed benefits as Stephen Jones," chipped in Alex smoothly. "But you still haven't answered the question, Mr Woods. Why _did_ you change your name? Could you have been trying to hide something?"

Although it was she who had asked the question, Woods directed his answer to Gene. "Look, I owed this bloke some money, all right? From when I was in – from a while back," he pulled himself up. "He didn't know I'd moved down here, I was trying to keep it that way. Didn't want him to catch up with me. That's all."

"Are you sure?" Gene subjected Woods to a snakecharmer stare.

"Yes! Look, for the last time, what's this all about?" Woods sounded almost panicky, then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, holding his hands up in front of him, palms facing them. "All right," he admitted, trying to make light of things, "so I hit someone in the pub. And I signed on under another name. I admit it – so just charge me and piss off, OK?"

"I think you know what this is about, Mr Woods." Alex's voice was as calm and quiet as ever. "You know we're not really interested in the fight, or the money." She slid a black-and-white photograph across the desk towards him. "Do you recognise this woman?"

Woods' eyes flickered to the photo, then back, too quickly, to his questioners. "No."

"Really?" Alex pushed; her turn to lean forwards. "Take a closer look."

Woods glanced again at the photo as if unwilling. "Never seen her before in my life."

Alex produced another photo. "How about this one?"

"Nope."

Again Gene surged across the desk, grabbing Woods' collar. "Look at the bloody photos!" In response Woods pushed his face towards Gene's, hissing "I'm _looking_, all right?" Subsiding again, Woods took the third photo proffered by Alex and studied it for an exaggerated amount of time before pushing it away with a shake of his head. "No."

"All right then, let's come a little bit closer to home. How about these?" Gene produced photos of the London victims. "See this girl here? Someone slashed up her face with a knife. Know anything about that?"

There was a curious look of concentration on Wood's face as he scanned the photograph which showed a close-up of Helen James' face, swollen, bloodied and bruised after her attack, disfigured with stitches. However after a moment he pushed it away like all the others and looked up again at Gene. "No. Nothing."

There was a short silence, a stalemate in which the three of them regarded each other suspiciously across the desk, then Alex gave a little sigh. "Fine," she began in a tone of slightly weary patience, "let's start from the beginning. Will you tell us where you were on the evening of 28th February last year?"

* * *

Gene paced around his office, smoking a cigarette. Alex, perched on the edge of a desk with a much-needed mug of tea, shared his frustration if not his energy. This was not going to be as easy as they had imagined.

They had gone through the details of each attack, asking Woods about his whereabouts on each occasion, but his answers had been at best vague, at worst obstructive. He had not denied anything that could be proven independently – for example, his movements on and off the army base, or visits to the cinema – but had been as unspecific as possible about everything else. His account of his activities on Christmas Eve - "Dunno. Can't remember. Look, I was pissed, right?" – was pretty representative. All of which left them, although strongly convinced of his guilt, lacking in any hard evidence to connect him to the case. In the end they had taken a break, in need of it themselves and hoping that it might bring Woods a change of heart.

"Doesn't like you, does he?" commented Gene, wheeling round at the window and coming back to stand next to Alex. "Could hardly stand to look at you."

"Yes, I noticed that too. He's really not happy with women in an authority position."

"Authority position? Have we tried that one yet?" Gene leered at her, and she blushed, eyes flashing appreciatively, suddenly glad that CID was empty.

"You, on the other hand," she continued, ostensibly ignoring his comment, "a male authority figure, he quite likes squaring up to you. He sees it as a challenge. Which is why, much as we would both like to see you beat him to a pulp, I don't think that on this occasion, violence is going to work. Not even macho threats. He relishes that confrontational stuff: the more you do it, the more he's going to dig in his heels and resist. We have to use a different approach."

For a moment Gene looked as though he was going to argue with her, but then he recollected himself and replied "What, then? You seem to rattle him a bit – can we use that?"

"I think so." She was pleased that he had reached the same conclusion as her. "If you ease back a bit, I can try a cognitive process on him." She saw the eyebrow as it raised and hurriedly continued, "Look, we've got nowhere asking him about recent stuff and the crimes. I think we need to take it further back, talk about his life experience, try and get him to open up about himself, then something more concrete might come out. Yes?"

"Fine by me, Bolly. All that psychology stuff freaks me out, fair chance it'll do the same to him."

Alex could have reacted badly to this somewhat dismissive summary of her craft, but she realised that he was only teasing her to save a bit of face. It was still hard for him to admit that she might have a better handle on such things than him, but he had conceded an awful lot by agreeing to let her lead the next stage of the questioning. So she merely gave his hand a quick squeeze and replied "Thanks. You sure that's OK?"

"Go ahead. Psychology, hypnotherapy – I'd let you try bloody acupuncture on him if I thought it'd get a confession."

* * *

Alex went back into the interview room buoyed up by Gene's support, even if it was couched in sarcasm. She sat down opposite Woods and gave him a bright smile, while Gene headed to the back of the room and leaned against the wall. Unhurriedly he lit a cigarette, noting with satisfaction that Woods watched him with an expression of mingled longing and fury.

"I'd like to call you Kevin, if I may," began Alex in a tone which although pleasant, brooked no argument. Woods did not reply but merely glowered at her. "And I'd like to talk about your childhood."

That got a response. "What are you, some kind of shrink?" he spat at her, his lip curling.

"Yes, actually," she replied, unflustered. "That's why I want to understand more about you. Your father was sometimes violent, wasn't he?"

"No comment." He eyed her with deep suspicion.

"You witnessed violence quite regularly during your early years, didn't you?" Alex continued smoothly. "Sometimes your mother was the victim, sometimes your brother – and sometimes you." Her voice softened. "You must have been very scared."

This time there was no reply, but Alex had succeeded in getting Woods' attention: for the first time he was not glancing at Gene, but staring at her in unwilling fascination.

"Scared – and angry," Alex went on, as though this were a perfectly normal conversation. "Angry with your father, angry with yourself for being unable to stop him. Angry with your mother too, perhaps, for continuing to put up with it. All that anger, stored up inside you. Where did it go, Kevin?"

Woods was by this time looking less than comfortable, but had enough presence of mind to snap back at her, "You're talking bollocks."

"It stayed with you, didn't it?" Alex's tone was as steady and gentle as it had been all along. "It stayed inside you, and most of the time you learned to control it, to channel it, even, but when things got too stressful it would still come bursting out. Isn't that right? It would come out as violence, because you didn't know any other way of dealing with the anger."

Woods seemed to be mustering some defences: he looked at her with some loathing and repeated "No comment."

"But what about your mother, Kevin?" Alex thought she detected a slight chink in his armour as she changed tack. "She was inconsistent, wasn't she? Affectionate one minute, cold the next. You never knew where you were with her. You never knew if she really cared about you or not. How did that make you feel?"

Woods was definitely looking rattled as he shot back at her "You know nothing about my mother!"

"Your gran did her best to provide some stability," again Alex continued, "but that wasn't really enough. Your upbringing left you feeling unloved, feeling betrayed – sometimes even unlovable. You learned to mistrust and despise women. Above all, you wanted control, didn't you? You had grown up being hurt by situations and people who were out of your control. You didn't want to risk that again. Holding power is very important to you, isn't it? Power over people – even over possessions. You don't want anyone or anything to be out of your control."

Woods by this time was staring at her with an almost manic look on his face: although he was angry, there were definite traces of fear. His only reply was an inchoate noise in his throat.

"The army provided some of the structure you were looking for." Alex was really getting into her stride now, sure of herself and her subject matter. "You could respect the people in authority there, although you still had trouble relating to your peers. And then you met a girl. Alison."

Woods' eyes, already puffy from last night's fight, narrowed to slits at the mention of his ex-girlfriend's name, but he said nothing, continuing to stare at Alex intently

"She was a perfect partner for you in many ways, because you could control her. She was younger than you, and lacking in confidence. She'd had an unhappy home life and was looking for a way out. For a while, you helped to meet one another's insecurities. She was prepared to put up with your control, your jealousy, even on occasions your violence, because she didn't think she deserved any better."

"She deserved nothing! Slut!" Wood's outburst was as unexpected as it was violent, and in spite of herself, Alex started backwards a little. Silently Gene moved forwards to stand just a pace behind her, providing support. Woods' eyes flickered up to him and back to Alex as he demanded "D'you know what she did to me?"

Alex recovered herself quickly, and pounced on the opening. "What? What did she do to you?"

"She behaved like a whore – soon as my back was turned – I was risking my life in Ulster – she was letting some other bloke into her bed – bitch…slut..." He tailed off, face twisted with bitterness.

Alex gently continued with her analysis. "From your point of view, another betrayal. A betrayal of the worst kind - sexual infidelity. She was out of your control in the worst way possible. You found that impossible to forgive."

Woods was extremely agitated now, looking quickly from one to the other of them as he repeated "Slut… whore… bitch…"

"You let her go, because she'd become worthless to you. Worse than worthless," Alex continued, quiet but purposeful. "But you were still angry with her, and you couldn't find an outlet for your anger. You carried it around with you, buried – you might not even have realised it was there, until one night, almost a year ago. You saw a girl who looked like Alison. It flicked the switch. You wanted to re-assert your sexual authority over Alison or someone who represented her. You raped her."

Woods said nothing, but his breathing was rapid as he continued to stare at them, the manic look still on his face. Alex held his gaze, intent as she pressed on, willing him to break.

"You raped her," she repeated, "and you cut her with a bottle. You wanted to make sure that no-one would ever want her again."

Alex's voice had dropped almost to a whisper, hypnotic; she leant forward towards Woods, watching for the slightest flicker of admission. For a long, tense moment she thought he was going to give; then concealment slid across his face like a mask.

"Bollocks," he replied flatly.

"I don't think so." Alex was disappointed, but her voice was calm as she refuted his challenge. "I know it, and you know it, Kevin. You attacked her, you raped her, you cut her, you left. You went back to the base. You might have thought that was the end of it – but it wasn't, was it?"

Woods' denial seemed to have bolstered his courage a bit: he managed a semblance of his previous sneer as he responded "You're talking shit."

"Something had happened," Alex continued, ignoring his interruption. "You wanted more. You wanted to do it again – impose your will on more women. So you started to go looking for them. This time you went prepared – you covered your face, carried tape to restrain your victims. You prepared a weapon – a knife. This knife." She reached out a hand to the penknife lying on the table. Woods' eyes followed unwillingly, almost fearfully, before he recollected himself and issued another flat denial: "Crap."

"You carried the knife," Alex's voice never faltered, "and you raped more women. First, near the university. A student. Then, a month passed. Maybe you were getting impatient: the girls at the university weren't going out alone any more. So you went to the red light district. You found another victim."

Woods did not respond, but his body language had changed: he now leaned back as though to disengage from Alex, arms folded across his chest as a barrier. She read the discouraging signs, but carried on.

"You were getting into a pattern, but then you got posted abroad. What happened there, Kevin?" Unlike her previous ones, this was a genuine question. "Did they keep you on the base in Germany? No opportunity to find women? Or should I be asking the German police about reported rapes? What happened?"

"Nothing happened." Wood's defiance had returned. "Like nothing happened 'ere, either. Look, I heard about those rapes, but you've got the wrong man, right? It weren't nothing to do with me."

Alex sighed like a parent pantomiming disappointment when a small child has lied to them. "Why don't you just tell me, Kevin?" she invited, beguilingly. "It would be so much easier. Because we _know_, Kevin. You can see that we know. The three women in Nottingham, the two in London. We know it was you. A jury is going to know that it was you. You can't get out of it. They'll go easier on you if you admit it."

It was her last gambit. Again there was a long moment when he stared at her, unspeaking; he licked his cracked lip, and she thought she might have finally got through to him. Then the mask came down again. "I admit nothing, because I've done nothing," he stated, defiance in every line of his face. "You can go on with your psychiatry bloody crap all you like, missis, but I'm telling you, you want to look for someone else. Now, are you gonna let me go, or what?"

Gene stepped forward, strength to cover Alex's defeat. "Not a bloody chance, sunshine," he informed Woods, grabbing him roughly by the collar and jerking him to his feet. "Get back to that cell."

* * *

Alex stood in CID's small kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She eased her weight from one foot to the other, trying to get the stiffness out of her back from sitting too long. When the kettle clicked off she made two mugs of strong coffee, and stirred sugar into one of them. Gene appeared behind her, accepted a mug wordlessly and took a large gulp. For a moment they stood in silence, close together, wearily seeking strength from physical proximity and caffeine.

"You know, I really thought you'd got him, there," Gene commented, taking another swig of coffee. She was relieved to hear no blame in his voice, only ruefulness. "Thought he was going to break. Can't believe 'e didn't."

"Neither can I", Alex sighed and turned to face him. "I'm not as clever as I thought, obviously." She had refused to show weakness in the interview room, but now her shoulders were sagging and her voice discouraged. Both of them knew that despite Alex's words to Woods, they really had almost no solid evidence against him. If the case were to go to court as it stood, a conviction was far from certain. His confession would make all the difference.

"C'm 'ere." Gene put down his mug and gathered her to him, an arm around her shoulders, pressing his lips gently to her hairline. "Don't worry," he rumbled, rubbing her back, "it's working. When you were talking about Alison, he was sweating like a Geordie in a spelling test. You had him proper rattled. Another night in a cell to mull it over, and he'll be whistling a different tune, you'll see."

Alex leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for both his physical and emotional support. "Oops – sorry -" Shaz's embarrassed voice made them break apart, although to Alex's pleasure, Gene's hand remained in the small of her back.

"What is it, Shaz?" Alex asked reassuringly before Gene could bark at the young woman.

"It's DI Lambert, ma'am. 'E left a message while you were in the interview room. Said to tell you he's been looking into some bloke called Simon, and found out he did a work placement at Slater & Co about 18 months ago. He's goin' to pull him in."

"See, Bolls?" Gene cut in before Alex could answer. "Not losin' your touch at all. Spot on with that one. Thanks, Shaz," he added, turning to the younger woman, "you get off home, now, OK?"

"Yes, thanks, Guv." Shaz cast a quick grin at Alex before obeying.

Gene turned back to Alex, gathering her in his arms again. "He's bloody keen, that Lambert, working on a Sunday," he observed, somewhat grumpily. "Still trying to impress his way into your knickers, I reckon." He tightened his grip on her, to emphasise that this was not an option.

Alex crowed with laughter and wrapped her arms around his neck. With a slightly embarrassed smile she replied, "Gene, you know, he never had a chance."

That made him smirk and he bent his head to kiss her properly. When she could breathe again, she asked, "Are you coming back to mine tonight?"

"Mmmm." There was nothing he'd like more, but he hadn't packed for it. "Tell you what. I'll pop back to mine straight away, get some clean clothes for tomorrow, then I'll come over and pick up some fish and chips on the way. OK?"

"Sounds great." She smiled and kissed him again.


	17. Resolutions

**And so we come to the end of the story. If I'd know it was going to take me the best part of two years to write, I'd probably never have started, but I did, and here we are. I'm so grateful to everyone who has encouraged me, both those who have stuck with the story all along and those who've only discovered it recently. Your reviews and comments really mean a lot to me.**

**Once again I give huge thanks to grainweevil and RedSkyAtNight, my two betas who have seen this story through from inception to completion. They have patiently and tirelessly checked my work, made huge and significant contributions to the plot, tactfully steered me when stuff I'd written wasn't up to scratch, and doggedly nagged me when I wasn't writing anything. They are both marvellous and I couldn't have done it without them.**

**I also couldn't have done it without many, many other people who have helped me with information, ideas, advice, and wisdom at various times. They include louella, Siggy, Helvetica Bold, liverdoc, wombledon, cat's tale, clownish, and probably others who have slipped my mind at the moment - plus others who contributed to my 'research thread'. Thanks so much to all of you!**

**If I'm not to sound like an Oscar acceptance speech I'd better knock off there, so on with the story - and I really hope you enjoy the ending. **

The next morning Woods was brought back to the interview room, looking even more dishevelled after another night in the cells. His bruises had become more apparent, blossoming livid yellow and purple across his face, and he looked tired, but just as truculent as the day before.

"So, sunshine, 'as another night downstairs jogged your memory?" began Gene, regarding Woods with some distaste.

"No." Woods seemed to have decided to say as little as possible.

"No?" Gene mimicked surprise. "I'd reconsider that answer if I were you. Otherwise you might find yourself adding to that collection of bruises."

"Piss off."

"Mr Woods," Alex cut in to prevent the macho confrontation from escalating, "let's try again. We want to know what you know about these women." She spread the photos on the desk once more.

"Nothing. Never seen 'em." He glowered at her through still-swollen eyes.

Both Gene and Alex knew that they would either have to charge Woods and bring him before the magistrate that morning, or let him go. Time was running out, and a confession at this point would make their job infinitely easier. Woods, however, seemed determined to be as uncooperative as ever. Patiently, Alex set about trying to change his mind.

"Kevin," she began softly, endeavouring to recall the intimacy of yesterday's interview, "let us help you. Because it's really not looking good for you here. We have so much to link you with these crimes…"

_So much, and yet so little, _she thought to herself as she said it. She was well aware that all their evidence was circumstantial, and might well not be enough to secure a conviction. Yet she had to convince Woods that it was stacking up against him. She put on her most persuasive tone.

"To begin with, look at the timings. You were in the right place at the right time for all these attacks. The first one was virtually on the doorstep of Chilwell camp, and we know that you were off the base at the cinema that night. The attack was on your direct route home. The second one was only a little further away…"

Gene, apparently paying no attention to Alex, emptied out Woods' possessions on to the table again and started to go through them. Idly, he unfolded a couple of screwed-up bus tickets and smoothed them out with his fingernail.

"…and we know that you were off the camp again that night. As you were on the afternoon of the third attack. You have no alibi – no proof that you were with anyone else. You had ample opportunity to carry out these attacks."

Woods stayed silent, although he was watching Alex intently. His attention was distracted though when Gene, still looking bored, took out the letter from Woods' gran and began to read it.

"And then, when you were posted abroad, the attacks stopped," Alex continued. She felt slightly irritated by Gene's activities, but her voice remained calm. "No-one is going to believe that that's a coincidence. Because when you turn up again, in East London – hey presto! – they start again. An attack with all the hallmarks of the previous ones, in Shadwell – just a stone's throw from where you were living at the time."

Woods was looking uncomfortable now, although whether this was as a result of her words, or the fact that Gene was now systematically sorting through the contents of the wallet, Alex was not sure. Starting to realise that there might be some method in Gene's actions, she smiled inwardly and carried on.

"Christmas Eve, and there you are again – in the right area, without an alibi. Claiming that you can't remember is not going to get you very far, Kevin."

Woods frowned, his eyes flickering agitatedly between Alex and Gene, who was counting loose change.

"Come January, you realised that the net was closing on you. Maybe your gran let you know that we'd paid her a visit? So you moved out of your lodgings, but you left something behind. Did you realise? You left this." Alex placed an evidence bag containing a roll of duct tape on the table.

A trace of alarm crossed Woods' face for a moment, before he looked stubbornly blank again. "Duct tape," Alex continued pleasantly. "Recognise it? All the victims were bound with duct tape. All _your _victims."

_Click. Click. Click. _A sound intruded on their concentration. Gene was idly flicking Woods' lighter on and off, staring absently at the flame. Woods' hands clenched and unclenched reflexively; his jaw was tense and Alex half-expected him to launch himself at Gene. With a great effort he tore his attention away and looked back at her. "Told you. Nothing to do with me," he managed in a hoarse voice.

"And then… there was the knife." Alex had come to her _piece de resistance. _As if on cue, Gene picked up the penknife and started to unfold the blades one by one, studying each in turn. Woods shifted restively on his chair, looking alarmed and hostile.

"These women were slashed with a knife – a small, sharp blade, quite possibly from a penknife. Like this one, in fact." Alex's voice dropped low as she watched to see what effect her words would have. "What a coincidence that you have one, just like the one we're looking for."

Woods' eyes moved frantically between her and Gene, who was stroking one of the blades across his finger as if to test its sharpness. There was tension in his every movement. Suddenly he lunged across the table and made a grab for the knife. "Get your filthy hands off that, you bastard!" he shouted.

Gene was too quick for him, and plucked the knife away. "Why? Important, is it?" he asked with studied innocence, watching Woods intently. He held the knife in view, tantalisingly out of reach.

"'S mine!" Woods almost howled, halfway across the table in his attempt to reach Gene. "Give it back! Mine!"

Seeing her chance, Alex leaned in across the desk, half-rising to her feet. "Tell us about the knife, Kevin," she invited, her voice low but insistent.

Woods looked again from Gene to Alex, eyes frantic, almost beside himself. Then, with a great act of will, he forced himself to sit down again. "Nothing. 'S just a knife," he muttered thickly, although his tone belied his words, and his eyes still followed the knife hungrily.

"Really?" Alex queried, one eyebrow raised, but Woods was regaining control and would not rise to her challenge. He remained silent.

Alex sighed and tried to return to the points which she had been enumerating. "You see, Kevin," she summed up, "everything points to your guilt. The evidence is overwhelming, the court is bound to agree – but the sentence depends on you. If you confess, the judge is quite likely to be lenient –you'll get a much shorter sentence than if you plead not guilty. You can help yourself here, Kevin. Just tell us. Tell us what you did, and we'll help you."

For a long moment Woods stared at her, but the shutters had come down once more on his face and no emotion showed. When he spoke, it was with measured venom. "You can say what you want, bitch," he replied with finality. "Them rapes were nothing to do with me, and you can go to hell!"

Alex sighed again and leaned back, reviewing the options. She had always supposed that if this situation arose and all else failed, they would charge him anyway, and then begin the long, painstaking process of trying to find more concrete evidence before the case came to court. She could barely believe her ears when Gene too stood up and calmly replied, "All right then. You can go."

"What?" The question came almost simultaneously from Alex and Woods: his voice doubtful, hers sharp with shock.

"I said, you can go. No more questions. If you didn't do it, that's that. The DHSS can deal with the rest. Let's take you downstairs." Gene sounded businesslike and uninterested.

"But – but -" Alex felt as though the ground had almost literally shifted under her feet, leaving her off balance, all at sea. She could not believe that Gene had so completely changed direction without ever consulting her: shock started to give way to indignation as the full impact started to sink in. Just what the hell was he playing at? How could they have got this far, just to turn Woods away? Seething inside, she was just about to launch into a full-scale argument when Woods turned away towards the door and Gene gave her an almost imperceptible wink.

The sight of it stopped her, mouth still open, as she registered its meaning. There was more to Gene's actions than appeared at face value; he must have some sort of plan, but could she trust him? The risk was enormous – if this went wrong, Woods could slip away into the underworld and be lost to them, perhaps forever. Every bit of her rational mind cried out against such a desperate gamble, but yet... _but yet_..._ s_omething made her fall silent. Something deeper than reason, her instinct, told her not only that she _must _trust Gene, if their relationship was to have any chance of success, but that she _did _trust him. He would not slip up now.

Still, she could not begin to imagine what his plan might be, and as they followed Woods along the corridor she hung back slightly, eyes still straight ahead as she hissed, "What are you _doing?_"

Gene's mouth turned up slightly at the corners and he murmured "Trust the Gene Genie," but said no more. Insane curiosity coursed through Alex as they followed Woods down the stairs and approached the front desk.

"Mr Woods is just going – check him out, will you?" Gene casually commanded Viv.

"Of course, Guv." Viv looked down and made a note on a sheet of paper. If he was surprised at this sudden reversal of events, he gave no sign.

"Oh – almost forgot – here's your stuff back." Gene handed over the now rather battered envelope.

Woods took it with a grunt of acknowledgment and cast a hasty look inside. Then he frowned and looked more carefully; when he still did not find what he was looking for, he emptied out the contents of the envelope on the desk so as to make sure. Suspiciously, he looked up at Gene. "Where's my knife?"

"What?" Gene's face gave no sign.

"My knife, you bastard! Where is it?" Woods was shouting now, agitated, and the various other police and public in the entrance hall stopped, alarmed at the sudden outburst. Alex waited a couple of paces behind Gene, watching intently as the scene unfolded.

Viv decided to play along. "I don't think you had a penknife, did you?" he enquired in polite bafflement, making a show of looking at a form before him. "It's not recorded on this list of your possessions..."

"Of course I had a knife!" Woods swung round to appeal to Alex, hands flung out in desperation. "My knife – he was touching it – what are you playing at? Give it back, you bastards!"

"Well, well, this is interesting." Gene spoke as if fully in control, watching Woods keenly, almost enjoying himself. Woods turned towards him again.

"Y'see, the thing is," Gene explained with dangerous affability, "your wallet's not there either. Now, call me old-fashioned, but I'd have expected most people to have been more concerned about a wallet with fifteen quid in it, than an old penknife. But you didn't even notice. So, for the last time, because I'm really getting pissed off of asking you this, _what's so important about the knife_?"

Woods was backed up against the desk, breathing heavily like an animal at bay. "Nothing," he gulped, but his self-control was rapidly slipping. "It's – it's – it wasn't me! 'S just a knife – I didn't do it - " - his voice rose wildly, breath heaving in his chest - "it wasn't me that raped those sluts! I didn't cut their filthy cunts! I -"

"Hold on a moment." Now it was Alex's turn to step forward, her quiet voice holding total authority in the room full of people. "Now, that's even more interesting. You see, in all the time we've been questioning you, we've never mentioned _where _these women were cut. It's never been in the public domain, either. How do you know where they were injured, Kevin?"

"I – I – "

"Save it," Gene interrupted flatly, all pretence of affability gone. "Kevin Woods, I'm arresting you for the rape and grievous bodily harm of Elizabeth Peterson, Nadine Taylor, Lesley MacNeil, Karen Blake, and Helen James. You have the right to remain silent..."

* * *

They sat once again in the interview room, morning sunlight slanting through the windows. Although the traffic was building up outside, inside the room it seemed muted, cut off from the outside world. Gene sat down at the table opposite Woods, produced the penknife from his pocket and laid it on the table. Woods' eyes lighted on it hungrily, but he said nothing.

Alex, sitting next to Gene, could sense the change in Woods: the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Gently, she began the questioning. "So, Kevin. Tell us about the knife."

The man's whole manner had changed: this time he did not look at them, but stared down at the table, eyes unfocused. His voice was quiet, hesitant at first, but once he began speaking, it was as though he did not want to stop.

"My dad had one," he admitted, frowning slightly, as though seeing something a long time ago. "He – he didn't often have much to do with me, my dad. Not in a good way. Wasn't around much, and when he was, he was drunk – but just occasionally..." He paused, licked his lips and continued. "Just sometimes, when he was in a good mood, I'd sit on his knee, and he'd talk to me. And show me his penknife."

"Sounds daft, but it were a fascinating thing, for a small kid. He'd open all the bits out one by one, and tell me what they were for... this is the screwdriver. This is the tin-opener. This is the thing for getting stones out of horses' hooves." He gave the ghost of a laugh. "Huh. Not many horses in Corby, but that's what he'd say it was for… He'd show me them all, and I'd think it was amazing, how they all folded up inside such a small space. And it seemed such a... such a grown-up thing to have. You were a _man_ with one of those, you were ready for anything..." His voice tailed off, eyes still far away.

"Go on," Alex prompted softly.

"When I was ten, he gave me one of my own. For my birthday." His voice was stronger again. "Didn't often even remember my birthday, but that year, he did. It was the best present... made me feel so special, really grown-up... and extra-special, because my dad had given it me." He fell silent for a moment, and there was a harder edge to his voice when he resumed.

"It was the last time that he gave me a present. Couple of months after that, he left for good. He had a big row with my mum, in the kitchen, and... I saw them. Crept down the stairs when I was supposed to be in bed, because I heard them shouting, and I saw him... he had his knife. He was holding it to mum's face, saying he'd hurt her if she ever looked at another bloke."

He paused a moment and continued. "I went back upstairs, 'cos I didn't know what to do... I never saw him again. He left that night, didn't come back. And I – I hid my knife, because I hated it after that. Hated _him_ – hated him for leaving, for all the times he'd hit me and my mum, all the stuff he'd said. Hated the knife because of what I'd seen him do – scaring my mum. But... I don't know why, but I couldn't throw it away, either."

Alex nodded, fascinated by the story, involved and yet evaluating at the same time. "There was still a part of you that wanted to be loved by your dad, wanted his approval," she offered, quietly. "The knife was a symbol of that, the most tangible symbol of approval that he'd ever given you. It became a kind of talisman, representing everything you loved and everything you hated about your father, all rolled into one."

Woods glanced up at her as if suspicious at her insight, her ability to express what he could not, but his anger and hatred had gone. "Yeah, maybe," he agreed, frowning at the table again. "So I always kept it – not on me, didn't carry it, but I'd always have it with me, wherever I lived, got posted by the army, whatever."

"And what changed, Kevin?" This time there was a steeliness underlying Alex's gentle question. "What made you start to use it?"

He looked up at both of them as though weighing them up, before reaching his decision. It was with an odd air, almost of relief, that he continued.

"I didn't have it on me, that first night, when I saw the bird that looked like Alison. Something in me just snapped... I wanted to hurt her, to do all the things I'd never done to Alison, but should have done... I had to use a bottle, that first time. But after that..." They could see his face becoming visibly clearer, as he finally admitted to what had happened. "After that, something just clicked. It seemed like the right thing to do. Do what my dad had done... hurt 'em... stop 'em... stop 'em from being whores and sluts..." His voice was getting stronger again, impassioned by the disappointment within him from all the relationships of his life. "Cut 'em with the knife... be like my dad..." He was rocking slightly now, working his hands together, and Alex felt something like pity for the wrecked, desperate young man.

It fell to Gene to be practical. "We need to get this straight," he cut in, once more spreading a series of photos across the desk. "Did you rape and cut all of these women?"

For the first time, Woods took time to look at the photos, registering each individual as if the photo brought back his memories of the attack. "Yes," he finally admitted quietly, "all of them."

* * *

"I can't _believe_ you did that without telling me!"

Gene turned from pouring a celebratory Scotch to face Alex, who had followed him indignantly into his office and was now confronting him, hands spread wide. "That business about letting him go – how on _earth _could you take that risk – " she continued to demand, chin up and eyes flashing.

"How could I tell you, you dozy mare?" he replied equally strongly, moving into her personal space in the way which had always infuriated her as much as it – she now admitted – turned her on. "I only thought of it in the interview room! Just remembered what you'd said about him being possessive about his stuff, so I started to look through it, and you were right, he really seemed to get narked. So I kept on, just trying to unsettle him whilst you were trying to persuade him to talk – and then when he still wouldn't play, I reckoned it was worth a punt on the knife." He frowned down at her in exasperation. "Could hardly explain it to you in front of him, could I? You know I'd have told you if I'd been able to."

"I hope so," she replied slightly doubtfully, but she accepted the proffered glass and sipped thoughtfully at it, somewhat appeased. After a moment she commented ruefully, "You were right all along about that knife being significant. And I completely missed it."

Gene allowed himself to look rather self-satisfied. "Told you so. Nothing to it, this psychology lark." He grinned and waited for the expected explosion.

Alex stayed calm, refusing to give him the satisfaction. After a moment, though, her own grin broke through and she commented "At least you won't have to show your arse at the Metropolitan Police Dinner Dance."

"Eh? Oh, I did say that, didn't I?" He chuckled at the memory.

"Pity. I was quite looking forward to it," she teased, eyes sparkling.

"Shameless tart," he countered appreciatively as their glasses clinked.

* * *

The news of Woods' arrest and confession spread quickly through CID and around Fenchurch East as a whole. A state of elation ensued, particularly in Gene's department as they registered that their most high-profile and time-consuming case of the last six months was drawing to a successful conclusion.

Alex and Gene, tired from the intense rollercoaster ride of the last twenty-four hours, took longer to catch the mood. However, in the mid-afternoon Alex took a call from DI Lambert which gave more cause for celebration, and gradually even they began to share some of the euphoria. It was an animated, not to say raucous, CID crowd which knocked off early that evening and made their way _en masse_ down to Luigi's.

"So, 'ave I got this right, ma'am?" Shaz frowned, still trying to get up to speed with the events in Nottingham as she and Alex carried their drinks from the bar across to the table. "That Simon bloke raped the Hazel girl just because she turned down a date with him?"

"Yes, it seems so." Alex sat down and took a sip of her wine, her face serious. "Apparently he asked her out in her first week at university – I think she got lots of offers, but she was too shy to accept any of them. She didn't even remember him, but for him, it was a big deal. He doesn't seem to have got over her, even when he started going out with someone else. When the rapes started nearby, he saw his chance."

"And then, he deliberately pretended to be the other rapist?" Shaz's voice was somewhere between incredulity and disgust.

"That's right. Because his girlfriend knew Nadine, the second victim, he got to hear some of the details that weren't made public - the knife assault, the way the rapist dressed, that kind of thing. So he copied them, as far as he could - although of course he didn't know everything. Still, it was good enough to keep Nottingham police off his trail for a long time."

Shaz looked horrified. "D'you know, I think that's worse than the other one?" she said after a moment's thought. "I mean, our one, Woods, he almost couldn't help what he was doing, right? But to plan something like that, and try and get out of it by blaming it on somebody else, that just seems horrible… cowardly, almost. D'you know what I mean, ma'am?"

"I do." Alex too had been chilled by the calculating way in which Simon had planned and executed his crime. "He must have thought he'd got away with it as well, with the amount of time that had elapsed, and no-one even the slightest bit suspicious of him."

"He didn't know he'd left the match-book behind?"

"No. He thought he'd done it perfectly – which was why he was so shocked when Andrew pulled him in. Apparently he went to pieces, confessed everything immediately. Bit different to Woods." Alex passed a hand over her weary eyes and took another sip of her drink. Then she smiled, all of a sudden looking much less tired as Gene appeared and sat down at her side.

"What's that?" he asked, coming in at the end of the conversation.

"DI Drake was just sayin' how that Simon bloke must have thought he'd got away with it, not bein' picked up for so long," explained Shaz.

"And he would have done, too, if it hadn't been for this meddling DI." Gene looked at Alex proudly, if somewhat proprietorially.

Shaz giggled. "Whatcha gonna do, Guv, give her a Scooby snack?"

"Something like that," Gene growled, his eyes never leaving Alex, and Shaz decided that this was her cue to leave them and find Chris.

Drink followed drink as the evening wore on and CID were evidently intent on making a night of it. Viv was there, enjoying a rare night out and being feted for his part in apprehending Woods. Someone persuaded Luigi to put a Bob Marley tape on the stereo, and after a while Viv had had enough drinks bought for him to persuade him to treat them all with his rendition of "Three Little Birds".

"_Don't worry, 'bout a thing / 'Cos every little thing, gonna be alright…"_

"See, Bolly?" Gene was in expansive mood now. His team successful, a few drinks inside him, and the beautiful woman next to him, his at last: life couldn't get much better than this. "Told you we'd get the bloke in the end, and we did. Worthless little scrote."

"Yes." Suddenly serious Alex stared absently at the table. "Still… I can't help feeling almost sorry for him. Such a terrible childhood… in many ways it determined the course of his life. The person he became. He couldn't escape it."

"Bollocks." The sharpness in his tone made her glance up quickly. He was regarding her intently, eyes glinting in the low light. "Plenty of people have violent childhoods, Bolly," he said quietly, his face hard. "They don't all end up like him."

"No." Her mind acknowledged the truth of his words, while her heart ached with the pain that underlay them – pain that she knew he would never acknowledge, not even to himself. There were two ways to deal with such experiences, and Gene had somehow found the strength to choose the positive one – to channel his energy, his anger, into pursuing the exploiters and the bullies. She loved him for it, just as she loved the occasional chunks of vulnerability that still showed through, along with the humour, the strength, and everything else that went to make up this amazing, complex, wonderful man. "No, you're right," she said more decisively; she gave his hand a quick squeeze under the table, and smiled around at the assembled team, still in full flow on the next table.

"Where's Ray?" she asked curiously. The DS, in the midst of celebrations earlier in the evening, was now nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, 'e's got a date," Chris replied. "That bird from the dry cleaner's round the corner, he's been seeing her quite regular."

"Crafty sod, he kept that quiet," grunted Gene.

"Well, Guv, so did you." Drink had made Shaz a little bolder than usual and she grinned knowingly at her senior officers.

"Yes, thank you, Shaz, that's quite enough from you." Gene sounded gruff, but couldn't bring himself to be properly cross. "I've been getting enough of that from Luigi, without you starting."

It was true: despite their efforts at secrecy, Luigi had worked out that his two favourite customers had finally got it together, long before Radio Carling had broadcast the news to anyone who would listen. They had already had to endure a week of what Luigi fondly imagined to be subtle winking and beaming whenever he saw them together. Only with some difficulty had Gene restrained himself from clocking him one, and even Alex had become slightly weary of it. Now the man himself appeared, smiling beatifically at them as he came over to collect glasses.

"_When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore…" _he warbled to no-one in particular.

"Luigi, you'll be finding pizza where the sun doesn't shine if you don't shut up." Gene's tone was calm but unambiguous.

Luigi looked at him, unimpressed. "You don't scare me, Signor Hunt. I know what I see." He wandered off towards the bar, still unrepentantly humming. _"__Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling, and you'll sing "Vita bella"…"_

Alex couldn't help smiling.

* * *

It was about a month later, late one evening. Alex pottered around her flat, already in pyjamas, tidying up papers and crockery that had got spread around the place. When everything was where it should be, she yawned, stretched, and glanced at the clock.

11.13 pm. Gene wouldn't be back for over an hour yet, she knew, and she was tired. She decided to go to bed. He wouldn't expect her to wait up for him. Leaving a small lamp on in the living room, she brushed her teeth and then got into bed.

She had spent the previous three days helping to deliver a training course on offender profiling. News of her abilities seemed to be spreading throughout the Met, and the Superintendent had been keen for her to participate. It was a field where she felt comfortable and she enjoyed sharing her expertise, but the preparation, followed by three long days of training, had been tiring, and she was glad that tomorrow was the final day. In spite of her fatigue, though, she suspected that she would do no more than doze until Gene came in.

It was about quarter to one when Gene plodded up the stairs to the flat. They were running a stake-out, observing the suspected HQ of a group of drug-dealers, and for the past week he had been taking turns at shifts with the rest of the team. What with that and Bolly's training course, he had hardly seen her lately. He knew that she enjoyed the training and deserved the chance to do it, but in truth, he couldn't wait to have her back on his team.

Knowing she was tired, he turned his key in the lock as quietly as possible, so as not to wake her. In the dim light of the living room he shed his coat and boots and then turned out the lamp, heading through to the bedroom in semi-darkness. Already the surroundings of the flat were very familiar to him. He hardly ever went back to his own flat now. Idly, he wondered how soon he could get rid of it.

He tried not to disturb her as he undressed quickly in the bedroom, but the bedclothes rustled and he heard her turn her head sleepily and murmur "Everything all right?"

"Yes." He folded his suit over the back of a chair and started to unbutton his shirt.

"Anything happen?"

"Only Ray getting indigestion from too much curry. It wasn't pleasant."

She smiled and rested her head on the pillow again, as he quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothes.

"Oh, and the date came through for Kevin Woods' case to come to court," he added, sitting on the bed to slip off his socks. "Should all be a formality, of course, now that he's pleading guilty."

"Yes." Her voice was drowsy. She didn't want to think about Kevin Woods. For six months two things had ruled her life – the case, and her anguished relationship with Gene. Now the case was over, and during it – perhaps because of it – everything else had changed. She felt a kind of joyful amazement that, after everything that had happened, every argument, triumph and disappointment that she and Gene had shared, simply to have him here, with her, was the most perfect thing in the world.

She didn't think she would ever hear him say "I love you." It wasn't the sort of thing he said. It didn't matter. He was _here_.

Gene lifted the covers and slid into bed beside her. She was facing away from him and did not turn round, but wriggled backwards and snuggled against him. His feet were cold from sitting in the car all evening and she generously draped her warm ones over them. He put an arm round her and planted a sloppy, possessive kiss just below her ear. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

"'S all right." She sounded even sleepier now. "'S good to have you home."

"Good to be home." He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the back of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. Her body, stretched out against his, felt warm and soft and comfortable.

_Home. _Technically it wasn't his home, of course, but it was funny how quickly he had slipped into calling it so. He felt more at home here that he'd ever done in his flat - more, even, than he had done during the last couple of years in Manchester. Perhaps, he mused to himself before he fell asleep… perhaps, now, for him, home was wherever _she _was. Yes. That felt right. He slept.

_THE END_


End file.
